


This Is What Hollows

by constellationqueen



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Aaron is not as much of an asshole as canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Exy is the reason Neil lives, JUST, M/M, Matt is extremely bisexual, Mentions of Rape, Neil is Nathaniel for most of this, Pre-Canon, Raven!Neil, Slow Burn, So here's this, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, i guess?, i mean it's not canon at all but fight me, i mean that's typical andreil right?, i'm really bad at tagging things, okay honestly right now i'm just talking out of my ass, this is a rewrite fic of the original, which i started hating, will also overlap with the canon timeline, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:46:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 63,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9639437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellationqueen/pseuds/constellationqueen
Summary: A month after Kevin runs from the Ravens, Nathaniel Wesninski is sent to the Foxes as a message from Riko.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS I'M BACK!!!!
> 
> This chapter isn't much changed, but I think Andrew comes out a bit better in it. 
> 
> If you're returning, welcome back <3 If you've just happened to stumble upon this hell, then strap in!

A little after five in the morning, Andrew gets woken up by Kevin’s phone alerting to a text message. It’s a shrill whistle that only lasts for a heartbeat, but it’s enough to have Andrew wide awake and tense, his back pressed more firmly to the wall, arm flung out to defend himself. He’s been living like this for a long time, though, and it only takes a few milliseconds for him to calm down and remember where he is. Across the room, Kevin, who is not so easily roused from sleep, doesn’t wake up. His breath remains slow and steady. Andrew waits in the dark, staring at the spot on the nightstand where Kevin’s phone is. Two minutes pass, and the phone whistles again as a reminder of the message. Kevin still doesn’t wake. Satisfied that he’s not going to be disturbed any more, Andrew closes his eyes and tries to fall back asleep.

He doesn’t manage to get very far before Kevin’s phone is ringing, blaringly loud, and in a ringtone that Andrew has never heard before.

“What the _fuck_?” Aaron complains, shifting around on the bunk above Andrew.

Nicky is up, too. “Kevin, answer your goddamn phone.”

In an unusual if not intriguing plot twist, Kevin bolts into a sitting position and presses the phone to his ear. Silence, save for Kevin’s short and startled puffs of breath, seeps through the room. Andrew slowly sits up and pulls on his glasses, studying Kevin in the near-darkness. He looks wide awake and in pain, his casted hand cradled against his stomach.

Kevin snaps something in French, shattering the silence and stirring everyone out of their frozen anticipation. Andrew tips his head, ignoring Aaron’s murmuring above him and the way Nicky leans over the edge of his bunk to stare down at Kevin. There’s something tight and clipped in Kevin’s voice that almost piques Andrew’s interest.

Mid-sentence, Kevin stops speaking, and his face goes instantly pale. A moment later, Kevin is on his feet and pacing. Tight muscles move him back and forth, up and down the room. Andrew watches, keeping an eye on him. Kevin starts speaking again, his voice lower and shaking. He’s still speaking in French, so Andrew has no idea what’s going on, but this is a side of Kevin he’s never seen before. Better be something worth waking up early for.

Andrew’s phone vibrating on his nightstand is an almost welcome diversion. Andrew reaches for it, frowning when he sees the caller ID. Still, he’s already awake, so there’s no reason not to answer.

“Coach.”

“Why is there a kid bleeding to death at the court?”

“Why are you asking me?” Wymack should know better than to assume that Andrew would do something stupid enough to get him behind bars. He has promises to keep, and, unfortunately, one of them is to the coach. Andrew’s eyes flick to Kevin, who has lowered his own phone and is now staring at Andrew.

Andrew doubts that these two calls are about different things.

“Is that Coach?” Kevin asks. He drops his own phone on his bed and approaches Andrew, his arm already out. Wisely, he stops before taking the phone.

“Would you rather talk to Kevin?” Andrew asks, tone bored. He is bored, in fact. To hell with it, he thinks, and hands his phone to Kevin.

“Coach.” Kevin pauses, waiting for Wymack to say something. “No!”

Across the room, Nicky jolts at the sudden outburst and swears under his breath as he climbs down from his lofted bed. Nicky is harmless, so Andrew turns his attention back to Kevin.

“No, Coach, please. Don’t. I know! But don’t.” The next pause stretches on for longer. Kevin glances at Andrew nervously. “Yes, it is. I know you don’t, but please… just take him to Abby’s. We’ll meet you there.” Kevin hangs up, and he seems to hold his breath while he stares at Andrew.

“That’s a heavy promise for a man who needs permission,” Andrew says. He gets out of bed slowly, approaches Kevin with measured steps. Kevin holds Andrew’s phone out to him, and Andrew stares at it a beat before looking back up at Kevin with a flat expression. “Incentive.”

“A kid might die.”

“Don’t care. Next.”

“Andrew –” Nicky is quick to shut up when Andrew shoots him a glare.

Kevin swallows and tries again. “He’s… it’s – a message. From Riko.”

Here’s another promise.

“We’re not going,” Andrew says, snatching his phone from Kevin’s frozen fingers and moving to climb back into bed.

Kevin grabs Andrew’s arm with a tight grip and spins him around. The only thing that intrigues Andrew even a little is the amount of spine Kevin shows by ignoring the knife Andrew suddenly has in his hand, tip pressed to Kevin’s abdomen.

“Your guilt is not my concern, Kevin Day.” Andrew’s words are slow and clear, reminding Kevin of the terms and conditions he agreed to when he made a promise with Andrew.

“It’s not guilt,” Kevin snaps, pushing away and beginning to pace again. Aaron, finally on the floor with the rest of them, steps backwards and out of his way.

Andrew doesn’t believe Kevin for a second, but he humors him anyway. “What is it, then,” he asks, though it’s spoken without inflection.

Kevin stops moving, shoulders hunching forward, drawing in on himself. His lips thin as they press together, and Andrew watches Kevin struggle with words for more than a handful of seconds. “Famil…iarity,” he says, slowly. “Familiarity.”

With Kevin’s dead mother and a father lost to the wind, the aborted answer of _family_ finally succeeds in grabbing Andrew’s attention and making the situation intriguing enough to start getting dressed.

Silently, and thankfully without question or argument, the other men in the room follow suit. Andrew trades his glasses for contacts, and soon enough they’re all heading from the suite. Nicky locks up behind them, and as he’s stepping away from the door, Dan pokes her head into the hall from the room she shares with Allison and Renee. “Where are you guys going?”

“Go back to sleep, Wilds,” Kevin says, and before Dan can say anything else, Andrew leads his group down the stairs.

Andrew doesn’t unlock the car until they’re right beside it, and he physically shoves Kevin towards the back door. The skin on Andrew’s hand crawls from the contact, and he makes a fist.

“What did I d–”

Andrew points at Kevin to shut him up and shakes his head as he backs around to the driver’s seat. “You lie to me again, and worse things will happen to you than having to sit in the backseat.” Andrew unlocks the car and slides in, but not before noticing Aaron and Nicky exchanging glances over the hood of the car. “Nicky,” Andrew says, twisting the key in the ignition to bring the engine to life.

“Yeah?”

“Get in the front.”

Andrew doesn’t even wait for everyone to be buckled before he peels out of the lot and floors it, swerving around what little traffic there is. They make it to Abby’s in just shy of five minutes. Wymack’s vehicle is already parked on the curb.

There’s no point in knocking when they’re expected company, but Andrew shouts a cheerful, “Hey, Coach,” when he steps inside. He may have been off of his drugs for several hours now, but that doesn’t mean they’re completely out of his system.

Wymack appears around the corner, blood staining his shirt and the front of his jeans down to his knees, but before he can open his mouth to say anything, Kevin has pushed to the front of Andrew, stopping right in front of Wymack.

“Where is he?” Kevin demands.

So much spine tonight.

Andrew watches Wymack look Kevin up and down before sighing and digging in his pocket. “Abby says no visitors, but if Aaron wants to help, then he’s more than welcome to.” Wymack looks at Andrew when he says it, and when Andrew shrugs, Aaron slips past and moves down the hall to follow Wymack’s rumbled direction of, “Guest bedroom.” When Aaron is gone, Wymack turns back to Kevin with another heavy sigh. “There’s vodka in the kitchen,” he says, just as he hands Kevin the piece of paper he pulled from his pocket. “I’m assuming this is for you.”

The thick stationary falls to the ground when Kevin drops it, and Andrew doesn’t follow as Kevin makes for the kitchen and the promised alcohol. Instead, Andrew crouches down and lifts the paper up himself. The blood, both dry and wet, makes it difficult to discern the flourished handwriting, but it’s legible enough.

_This one’s on you. –R_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished chapter 7 so I thought I might treat you guys

Nathaniel wakes up to someone stitching his abdomen. The panic is there in his gut, right behind the needle tugging on his skin, but he knows better than to react. If he moves, Jean could fuck up and damage Nathaniel worse than he is. Neither of them would fare well after the punishment for that mistake, and if Nathaniel is bad enough to need stitches, he doesn’t want to make it worse. He’s done that before, when he was younger and still new to this. He still had to play with the worsened wounds.

The problem, though, as Nathaniel is quickly figuring out, is that his body feels too numb. Not even _too_ numb, as if a higher dosage of numbing agent was used, but just _numb_ , as if any at all has been applied. A line along his side where he remembers Riko’s knife – numb. A puncture wound by his shoulder from an object as blunt as a spoon – numb. He can recognize a local anesthetic despite the fact that he’s only ever used it on himself once. And that is the problem, plain as day. Riko doesn’t let them use anesthetics, because continued suffering is part of the punishment – and the fun. Which means that whoever is stitching Nathaniel right now is not Jean, is not a Raven.

He doesn’t remember anything, though. He passed out twice throughout Riko’s torture, and the second time is his last memory – Riko snarling in his face, words that Nathaniel was too gone to hear. He’s regretting that, at the moment, cursing his body for not being able to hold on long enough to hear the threat and the promise that must have been there. But all Nathaniel has is Riko’s face, the black number one tattooed on his cheek, the crazy, angry, possessive glint in his eyes.

They’re supposed to return to Evermore tonight. Nathaniel is supposed to be with them. He’s glad for the sensation of being stitched up, because it takes away from the hollow feeling of abandonment in his stomach.

“Aaron, hand me the – yeah, thanks.”

Nathaniel doesn’t recognize the female voice, but with her intrusion he begins to notice other things about his present situation. Things like the knowledge that the bed he’s lying on is soft and definitely not a college-issued mattress. Things like the dried blood cracking on his torso every time he draws a short, uneven breath, as slow as he can handle as he pretends to still be unconscious. There are two sets of hands on him, and it’s all Nathaniel can do not to crawl out of his skin. One set of hands is pressing down, probably staunching blood flow from wounds that have yet to be stitched, or at least that haven’t been bandaged yet. The other set of hands, fingertips light but no less noticeable, does the stitching. Beyond the copper stench of blood, the room smells of lavender.

No, he’s definitely not at Evermore.

Nathaniel can feel the pinch of the needle going through his skin on what he hopes is the last stitch, and he fights for a moment to keep from flinching or showing any signs of pain. He’s not ready for these strangers to realize he’s awake yet; he’s not sure exactly what they would do to him if he opened his eyes right now, but none of the scenarios going through his head are good ones.

But it’s hard to stay in control once he’s acknowledged the pain, because pain, once it has your attention, refuses to be ignored. Like a goddamned toddler. And Nathaniel hurts everywhere, which isn’t entirely unusual after walking out of a session with Riko, but this is different, it feels different, and not just because of the anesthetic. He’s been abandoned.

_They abandoned me._

That alone nearly sends Nathaniel into a panic attack. No. _No._ Stop, breathe. He needs to get a fucking grip. There is no way in hell that he’s going to let these people, whoever they are, know that he’s awake, not until it’s on his terms.

So he focuses on the unsteady count of breaths that are fast enough to get air into his lungs and painful enough to let him know that he won’t be running anywhere for a while, but that are still slow enough for his fake unconsciousness. He blanks his mind as much as he can, starts to build up his solid, sheer wall of blackness, as empty as he needs himself to be. He pushes out the pain and keeps it out. He’s not here, in this room, on this bed, caught between these two sets of hands. He’s not at Evermore, enduring whatever fresh hell waits for him. He’s not anywhere.

It takes an eternity before the two people finish stitching and bandaging Nathaniel back together. But, finally, a door to his right closes, and Nathaniel is left alone.

He opens his eyes and blinks in the near-darkness of the small room. There’s just enough light seeping around the heavy window shades to provide Nathaniel with the outlines of a closed door, a small vanity, a small dresser, and a bedside table to his right. Judging by the density of the shades and the clearness of the minimal light, Nathaniel guesses it’s probably a little after dawn. So it’s been over three hours since he was left for dead.

Nathaniel takes a deep breath and pushes to his elbows. Black spots dance across his vision, and he loses some of his already limited breath, but he forces his way into a sitting position. If Jean was here, Nathaniel would be on his feet already. Well, maybe. Only if they needed to go somewhere.

Nathaniel needs to go somewhere. Anywhere but here.

Where is _here_ , though?

That becomes ground zero. If Nathaniel can figure that out, then he can piece together the rest of the story. He’s near Palmetto State University, that much is easy enough to gather, since that is where Riko began cutting him. But where, exactly, is Nathaniel now? How close is he to Palmetto, or how far away? Who’s house is he in?

Voices slowly seep under the door, and Nathaniel gets to his feet. He sways as blood rushes from his head, and he stumbles over to the wall, catching himself against it. He thinks he might leave a smear of blood in his wake, but that is far from a major concern. A sharp pain shoots through Nathaniel’s core, sending his knees shaking and his breath falling in ragged pants from his chapped lips. It’s a familiar pain, but not one that he had been expecting. He tries to take a step and nearly loses his feet, but he manages to brace himself against the wall enough to remain standing.

 _You need to move_.

Gritting his teeth, Nathaniel takes one step, and then another, and another after that. He continues to lean heavily against the wall for support, but he can walk, at least. He makes his way to the door and silently opens it. The hallway ahead of him is straight, short, and bright, and it takes Nathaniel a moment too long to get his eyes to adjust. Maybe he has a concussion on top of everything else. That would be just his luck.

The voices are louder now.

“Who’s going to tell me,” demands the woman’s voice, the same voice of the person who had been stitching Nathaniel, “why there’s a bleeding boy in my guest room?” Her house, then. Nathaniel stores that information away as he begins the slow process of making his way down the hall. He’s lost too much blood for his balance to be better and for his body to be stronger. It takes effort for Nathaniel to not start breathing too hard or too fast. If this house isn’t safe… well, he won’t be running anywhere tonight.

“I –”

Nathaniel stops just before the end of the hallway, frozen by that voice. It’s only been a month since he’s heard it, but it sends his pulse racing and brings his stomach to his throat. Hearing that voice means that he won’t be killed tonight, but _fuck_ he wishes he was anywhere but here.

Before he can panic and before he can be noticed without announcing himself, Nathaniel steps the rest of the way out of the hall and says, “You know that bleeding boy has ears, right?”

While the other people standing in the room freak out, Nathaniel takes everyone in as best he can in this slower, inconvenient body state.

The Palmetto State Foxes’ coach, David Wymack, is standing off to the side of the room, in a spot where Nathaniel can barely see him, but Nathaniel sees enough to acknowledge the sharp look the coach shoots at him. Freshman backliner Nicholas Hemmick is wearily standing in front of the sole armchair in the room, face drained of color as his eyes travel over Nathaniel’s body, which, since he’s wearing only a pair of briefs, is entirely on display, wounds and all. The woman, who is currently standing the closest to Nathaniel, whips around at his entrance and stares at him with a mixture of shock and horror. Her clothes, which have the casual appearance of pajamas, are stained with blood. Nathaniel thinks he recognizes her as Abigail, the Foxes’ nurse, but he’s not familiar with her. Across the room is freshman backliner Aaron Minyard, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand, with clothes just as blood-stained as Abigail’s. Aaron’s cleaner, mirror image, freshman goalkeeper Andrew Minyard, is straight across the room from Nathaniel, body positioned in a defensive stance in front of ex-Raven striker Kevin Day.

“Kevin,” Nathaniel says, voice flat and steady while his lip curls up in distaste. He doesn’t want to acknowledge Kevin at all, but ignoring the elephant in the room seems of poor taste at the moment. The cast on Kevin’s left hand is still there, though Nathaniel only saw him in it for a brief moment before Kevin disappeared from Evermore. Those once-familiar green eyes are wide and scared in a way that makes them strange to Nathaniel. Fear is not something Nathaniel associates with Kevin Day, and it sickens him seeing it there now. What the fuck does Kevin have to be afraid of?

“I – How – Nathaniel…” Kevin can’t seem to complete a sentence, which has Nathaniel narrowing his eyes. It’s only been a month, and Kevin has lost so much spine. Riko didn’t break him that bad. It was only a hand.

Abigail lets out a choked noise before Nathaniel can think of a haughty enough dismissal to Kevin’s unfinished question. “How…” Abigail clears her throat when Nathaniel flicks his gaze her way. “How long have you been awake?”

Nathaniel takes her in once more, everything from her curly ponytail to her dark complexion, all the way down to her socked feet. “An hour, give or take. I’m a little hazy on it, but that seems a fair guess.” He says it without emotion, though his tone leaves no doubt that he’s telling the truth. “You skimped out a little on the anesthetic on this one,” he taps the bandage over the long cut on his abdomen without looking down at it. “That last stitch hurt a bit.” Nathaniel flashes a quick smile.

Aaron swears under his breath as he moves to stand closer to Nicholas, his cousin, who collapses into the armchair. Nathaniel tracks the movement and almost misses Kevin stepping closer.

“Nath-”

“Don’t you _fucking_ come near me,” Nathaniel snarls, holding his ground but just barely. He’s not afraid of Kevin, not even a little, but the very last thing he wants is Kevin to be near him. His shaking hands curl slowly into fists as he glares Kevin down. “Don’t you fucking dare.” This is Kevin’s fault, this whole _god damn_ mess, all of Nathaniel’s injuries… all of it is Kevin’s fault. Nathaniel isn’t stupid enough or selfless enough to think otherwise, and regardless of how many years he’s known Kevin, regardless of their shared history, that is not something that Nathaniel is ready or willing to let go of.

Andrew moves his body just enough to get Nathaniel’s attention, and Nathaniel watches as the blond presses his hand to Kevin’s chest and pushes the much taller man back hard enough that Kevin stumbles. Nathaniel drags his gaze down Andrew’s body, taking in his physique, his loose limbs, his armbands, his emotionless gaze. Nathaniel sees some of himself there, but he slides past that thought. He knows how problematic he is, and he doesn’t need to deal with another problematic person. “So you’re the reason Kevin transferred here,” he says instead, keeps the words slow while he waits to see a reaction. When none comes, he dismisses the importance and the threat of Andrew, despite the rumors circulating about his mental stability. Andrew is not the reason Kevin came to the Foxes, but if Andrew doesn’t know that, Nathaniel isn’t about to spoil the surprise. “From what I’ve seen so far this year, you’re not worth it.”

“I keep trying to tell that to Kevin,” Andrew says, and there’s an instigator’s inflection pushing through his words and an intelligent sparkle in his eyes. “He doesn’t listen.”

Nathaniel shoots a look at Kevin, who is still staring at Nathaniel as if he’s waiting for a second head to sprout. “Clearly,” he says, a dismissal of the conversation, a dismissal of Kevin, an acceptance of Andrew.

Breathing is becoming more difficult. He’s going to need to sit down soon.

He turns his eyes to Abigail, who still looks horrified that Nathaniel is standing in front of her, bleeding but on his feet. Nathaniel, however, knows it’s not fear. He and fear are very intimate, and Abigail’s expression is not that. “Bathroom?” he asks, and tries to make it sound less like an order and more like a request. Jean, if he was here, would have smacked Nathaniel upside the head if he was rude to the woman who kept him from dying prematurely.

The Foxes’ nurse nods once, quickly, and then again as her senses come back to her. “Yeah, uh… I’ll go grab some clothes for you. I think you’ll fit into some of my pajamas…” She hurries from the living room to the other side of the house, where Nathaniel doesn’t doubt that there is a master bedroom. While she’s gone, no one speaks, everyone stares at Nathaniel, and the only one who moves is Aaron, passing the whiskey to Nicholas. When Abigail returns, Nathaniel follows her down the hall, back the way he came.

They’re barely out of sight of the living room when there’s a shout of, “Andrew!” and the heavy thud of a large body hitting a wall.

Smirking at the thought of Kevin cowering against the wall, his bodyguard turned against him, Nathaniel takes the clothes from Abigail and locks himself in the bathroom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know my chapters aren't very long, and I always feel really bad about that. Anyway, I just finished writing chapter 8, and I'm hoping to finish all of the Eden's chapters this weekend.

Nathaniel has never been to the Foxhole Court, and honestly, he can’t say that he’s been missing much. The bright orange is nauseating, and somehow the stark white only makes things worse. The court is in good condition despite the shit team it belongs to, but there aren’t enough players or enough fans to wear it in, to make it into a great stadium. The only truly positive thing Nathaniel can say about the court is that the bright colors, though horrendous, give the stadium an open interior, far to the contradiction of Evermore’s suffocating black.

“Who the fuck is that?”

Nathaniel looks up from his feet as the misfit team of Foxes filters into the lounge, joining the small group that’s already here. Andrew Minyard, his twin, his cousin, and Kevin are all already piled onto one sofa. They wouldn’t have been able to manage if the twins weren’t so small. Even so, none of them look particularly comfortable, except possibly for Andrew, although even he looks less comfortable and more simply unaffected. Nathaniel watches as Andrew eyes his teammates as they enter the room, a grin perched on his lips. Andrew isn’t sober today.

“Questions later,” Wymack barks. “Sit down and shut up.”

The man who had spoken is Jacob Carter, fifth-year-senior starting striker, and Nathaniel tracks him as he comes around the back of the second sofa and takes a seat. Nathaniel holds Jacob’s gaze until a low whistle catches his attention.

“I thought Andrew was the worst thing you could drag in here, Coach,” Danielle Wilds, junior offensive dealer, says, though not unkindly. Her teasing smile keeps Nathaniel from being offended, though he doesn’t really care what she thinks all that much anyway. Danielle is the captain of the Palmetto State Foxes, the first female captain in Class I history. Nathaniel has yet to see why she’s been granted such a title. She’s not a bad player, but her team is shit. If the Ravens were handled so poorly by Riko, the man would be… well, Nathaniel doesn’t know. Given Riko’s status in the world, it’s possible nothing would happen to him. Doesn’t matter. It’s not as if losing is in Riko’s vocabulary anyway.

“Nice to see you too, Dan,” Andrew says, giving his temple a tap with two fingers in a false salute. The smile he throws is sharp. Unfriendly, but amused.

Matthew Boyd, sophomore backliner, bristles behind Dan, but calms when Renee Walker, junior goalkeeper, touches his arm. “Andrew,” Renee says, and though her voice comes off as a friendly greeting, Nathaniel can hear the reprimand behind it. Andrew just arches an eyebrow and watches the others file in.

Senior striker Brian Seth Gordon, who prefers to be called by his middle name, junior defensive dealer Allison Reynolds, fifth-year-senior offensive dealer James Brown, and fifth-year-senior striker Raphael Cortez all find places on the furniture alongside their teammates. Nathaniel is quick to assess all of them, stats running through his head while he makes note of their physique, their heights. Any of them, as college athletes, could be a potential problem to Nathaniel right now.

Nathaniel almost snorts, amused at himself. Even without a gun, a six year old could be a potential problem for him right now, given his condition.

Honestly, he’s supposed to still be in bed. Abigail had argued viscerally against Wymack dragging Nathaniel out of her house, but Wymack had fought back and fought back hard. The Foxes needed to know that they were hiding a Raven, he said. You can’t shove all of them into your guest room, can you, Abby? Nathaniel had tried to argue for himself. He didn’t want to see the Foxes. He didn’t give a shit about the Foxes. He hurt, he hurt, _fuck_ , everything hurt no matter how many painkillers he took, and it’s not like he would be around long enough to get to know any of them, anyway.

In the end, it was Jean’s nagging voice in the back of his head that broke him down. For the time being, at least, Palmetto State, and subsequently the Foxes, was going to be his hiding place from Riko. Until such a time when he could conveniently leave, Nathaniel supposed he ought to play nice. Or at least, as nice as he could.

“Coach?” Danielle prods, nodding towards where Nathaniel is currently leaning against the wall. Nathaniel notices that the captain tries not to look at him too long, and he wonders about that for a moment. Is she scared of him? Or is she scared of what his visible bruises, scars, and bandages represent?

Nathaniel is intimate with fear, and he can practically smell it seeping from nearly all of the Foxes. The last time a broken Exy player showed up at their doorstep, they had to hide him from Riko. Nathaniel is sure that they’re all hoping against a repeat performance.

“Found him unconscious and bleeding against the door of the court,” Wymack explains, leaning back against the enterainment stand and folding his arms over his chest. “Kevin convinced me to bring him to Abby’s instead of the hospital –”

“What the fuck, Kevin?” James interrupts, turning in his seat to glare across the room. That confirms for Nathaniel that these people haven’t figured out who he belongs to yet. Kevin, for once in his life, seems to have made a smart call. If Nathaniel had been taken to the hospital, he would be dead right now.

Andrew tosses a casual glance at James and lifts an eyebrow. “Stay on your side, Brown.”

Shockingly, James turns back around to face Wymack. Nathaniel can see the tension in James’ shoulders, his jaw, the way he takes off the bandana holding back his dreadlocks and twists it between his hands like he wants nothing more than to strangle Andrew with it. Nathaniel is instantly curious how five-foot-even Andrew Minyard managed to get every member of the Foxes afraid of him in just about half of a season. Then again, judging by the angry glint in James’ eyes when he looks back at Andrew, maybe _afraid_ isn’t the right word. Regardless, Nathaniel has no doubt that no one is willing to fuck with Andrew.

“Anyway,” Wymack says pointedly, glaring at Andrew for a moment before turning his glare to the rest of the Foxes. After a while, he looks at Nathaniel, who is still leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his stomach, refusing to allow himself to want for a place to sit. He had turned down an offered chair, because he could stand. He _would_ stand. So long as he’s on his feet, he’ll be fine. It may hurt, it may slow down his healing, but if he’s standing, then he can run. He can find a way out. “Wanna tell us why you’re here?” Wymack asks, and his gruff voice doesn’t sound quite as sharp as it had been a moment ago.

“I’m here because you wanted to introduce me to your shit team, and because you wouldn’t let me stay in bed this morning,” Nathaniel says, tired, but the challenge in his voice is there.

Dan and Jacob each make an offended noise, but Nathaniel is more interested in the slow smile on Andrew’s face and the cough Nicholas uses to hide his laughter.

Kevin, unfortunately, is quick to ruin Nathaniel’s fun. “He’s a warning,” Kevin supplies, voice low, bags under his eyes from little to no sleep. “And a threat.” Nathaniel can’t find it within himself to feel sorry for the ex-striker, current assistant coach, once-upon-a-time adoptive brother. “From Riko.” Several members of the team share a collective intake of breath, but Kevin isn’t finished with his halting explanation. “Well, I guess he’s not really a warning…”

“Scare tactic,” Nathaniel supplies, getting irritated and tired the longer he has to be on his feet. He should have put his foot down and just stayed with Abby. “I’m supposed to be dead, and my death was supposed to rattle Kevin enough to get him to… I don’t know. Leave the Foxes? Return home?” He shrugs. “I don’t know, and I don’t really care.”

“That’s not my home.” Kevin’s protest is weak and his soft voice proves that even he knows it.

“Bullshit,” Nathaniel says, harshly, in Japanese. He narrows his eyes and switches back to English when he notices the tension in Andrew’s body, the way he looks ready to get to his feet. Nathaniel knows better than to fuck with Andrew right now. He turns his attention back to Kevin. “You’ve only been gone for a month; you haven’t changed that fast. If, for whatever reason, you suddenly couldn’t stay here anymore, you’d go right back to the Master, tail tucked between your legs, and Riko would be waiting for you with open arms and your collar in his hand.”

Kevin flinches so hard it looks as if an invisible hand just slapped him across the face. The rest of the room is silent. Nathaniel meets Andrew’s probing gaze and tips his chin up in defiance. Andrew smiles, and Nathaniel isn’t sure how much of it is a threat, and how much of it is just the medication.

“You’re a Raven,” Raphael finally says, stating the obvious mystery hanging in the air in front of everyone’s faces. That it took them so long to figure it out just makes Nathaniel feel more justified in his contempt of them.

Allison crosses her right knee over her left and leans against Seth. “I’ve never seen him in the lineup. Or on the court.”

“He doesn’t play,” Kevin says.

“But he’s got…” Matthew motions to his own freckled cheek in order to indicate Riko’s form of branding that Nathaniel is sporting on his left cheekbone. It’s not like Nathaniel was hiding that; his number three was evident to the whole room. Idiots, all of them.

Nathaniel bares his teeth at the reminder that, although once coveted by the self-proclaimed son of Exy, Nathaniel has been tossed out like trash for a transgression that he himself didn’t even commit. Kevin is going to pay for this, and Riko is going to regret ever discarding Nathaniel in that way. “I’m not in college yet,” Nathaniel says, patience running low on how much needs to be spelled out for everyone. “I’ll be a freshman this coming fall.”

“You’re still in _high school_?” Nicholas demands, leaning forward and looking flabbergasted. He gestures at the length of Nathaniel’s body with a limp wave of his hand. “But you’re so…”

“Nicky?”

“Yeah, Andrew?”

“Shut your mouth before he shuts it for you.”

Given what Nathaniel has seen of Andrew’s protectiveness toward his group, Nathaniel is more floored by the fact that Andrew would let Nathaniel even _try_ to go after Nicky than he is shaken by Nicky’s comment. Apparently Nicky and many of the other Foxes feel the same, because Nicky throws Andrew a look of terror before curling deeper into his corner of the sofa. Allison lightly smacks the back of her hand against Matthew’s arm and leans in to whisper in his ear.

“Allison,” Renee chides, but a soft smile lifts her lips.

“Okay,” Dan says, breaking up the whispers and running a hand down her face. “Okay, so what do we do with him?”

 “We can’t send him back,” Matthew says, and the glance he throws Nathaniel is sympathetic. “They’ll kill him.”

Nathaniel says nothing, now interested in seeing where this discussion is going to go. What sorts of crazy shit is this team willing to do for someone who was supposed to play for their rivals? What are they willing to do for someone as dangerous as Nathaniel?

“No shit, Matt,” Jacob snorts, shaking his head and rubbing his hand over his close-shaved hair. “They already tried that. Can he stay here?”

“He can’t stay on campus; he’s not enrolled.”

“Fuck that,” Allison says, her eyes narrowing in thought as she examines her fingernails. “Money could buy him a way in.”

“You volunteering to pay for his room?” Raphael asks, leaning around Seth to raise an eyebrow at Allison.

This is already going way beyond what Nathaniel had been expecting.

“I’ll help, too,” Matt volunteers. “There’s an open bed in our room anyway.”

“Yeah but there’s only Raph and me in our room,” James says.

“How _did_ you two end up–”

Wymack whistles, high and long and piercing. Nathaniel can’t stop his flinch at the sudden sound, the way it reminds him of Riko, of Nathan. “Okay, that’s enough,” the coach says, pulling both hands down his face. “Nothing’s happening until I talk to the cop–”

“No.” Nathaniel and Kevin say the word at the same time, but where Kevin’s voice is merely firm, Nathaniel’s is a well-sharpened blade. “No cops.” Nathaniel cuts a withering look at Kevin before continuing. “And you wouldn’t have to tell anyone if you would just let me fucking leave. I don’t want to be here. And trust me, you don’t want me to stick around.”

“Let him go. Little bitch isn’t our problem.”

If Nathaniel had his knife on him, or if he had been closer, or if he hadn’t been so damned weak from Riko’s wounds, Seth would be a dead man.

“Look, Nathaniel,” Wymack says, ignoring his striker in favor of facing Nathaniel. “I can’t really make you stay. You’re a human, and I really don’t go for the whole ‘prisoner for your own good’ thing. But, you’re what? Seventeen, right? You’re not an adult. And you’re injured. You can hardly hobble around on your own two feet. If you leave, I’m going to be obligated, as an adult, to tell someone that a severely injured minor is out on their own. I’m obligated by law to do this. If you stay, I can, probably, find a way to let it pass. I won’t notify the authorities, I’ll give you a place to stay. You can even be around Exy, if you want, but I won’t subject you to these assholes, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Nicky says, apparently already recovered from Andrew’s threat. “Love you, too.”

“Shut it, Hemmick, or I’ll sign you up for the next marathon.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Saturday at two o’clock. Forms are in my office. All I need to do is write down your name and sign it.”

“Sorry, Coach.” Nicky holds up his hands in surrender and mimes zipping his mouth.

Nathaniel mentally gives Nicky five minutes before he starts talking again. “I’m not their teammate,” he says, sweeping a look over the assembled Foxes.

“That settles it, then,” Wymack says, though he must know that it really doesn’t settle anything. Still, he claps his hands together as if a nice deal has just been struck. Nathaniel tries not to flinch, but he knows he does when Andrew catches his eye and cocks his head just a bit to the side. That places something unpleasant in Nathaniel’s stomach. He had not wanted to become something interesting to Andrew Minyard.

“You can stay with Abby,” Wymack continues. “I’m sure she’s going to want to keep an eye on you, anyway.”

“I’m sure she’s going to love you speaking for her, too.”

Raphael makes a teasing “oooohh” noise, and Matt laughs and says, “He got you, Coach.” Nathaniel makes no comment and just continues to stare Wymack down. Wymack, in turn, stares back. Both of them are very serious about the half-threats and promises left hanging in the air.

“Wait, Coach?”

Nathaniel looks to Renee, who has a smile on her lips and a serene expression on her face that Nathaniel doesn’t trust at all.

“What happens when the Ravens find out that Nathaniel is still alive?” _When_ , not _if_. There’s no doubt that, eventually, Riko will know. Riko and the Master will find out, and Kengo and Ichirou will find out, and then –

“They’ll kill him,” Kevin says, and Nathaniel nods his agreement.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished writing chapter 10, which is nearly twice as long as one of my normal chapters. Basically what I'm saying is that I have earned posting another chapter only two days after the last one.
> 
> I'm also not sure about this chapter? It was weird completely rewriting it. But I think this works better. Let me know what you think in a comment. Feedback is always appreciated

Abby is waiting outside in the early afternoon sunlight. She’s standing on the cement top step leading up to her front door, arms crossed over her chest. Nathaniel has a hard time reading her expression, but she looks formidable even in sweatpants and a blaze-orange Foxes shirt. Wymack pulls up to the curb, and Nathaniel, ready for the day to just be over, opens his door as soon as they have stopped moving. He sighs when Wymack turns off the engine and gets out of the car as well.

“I’m fine,” Nathaniel says to the overbearing coach, though he directs the words towards Abby as well when she steps away from her place by the front door and makes to come closer. “I’ve been walking all morning on my own. I think I can make it to the house just fine.”

“Good for you.” Wymack raises his eyebrows, but he stops near the hood of his car and folds his arms across his chest.

Abby seems less willing to let it slide. She turns a frown on Wymack and steps up to Nathaniel, despite his insistence that, really, the handful of yards between Nathaniel and the door is nothing. “I told you to take care of him, David,” Abby says, reaching out a hand as if to steady Nathaniel.

The second Abby’s fingers even just barely brush his arm, Nathaniel grabs her hand, his thumb digging into the pressure point by her thumb, and twists her wrist. The decision to react happens so subconsciously that Nathaniel doesn’t even register what he’s done until Abby makes a choked sound of pain. Wisely, she doesn’t try to fight back or jerk away. With this grip, resistance could easily end with her wrist broken.

Grimacing, Nathaniel lets her go and, for good measure, gives her a small shove to get her away from him. He doesn’t want to touch her any more than he wants to be touched by her. Right now, if he had his way, no one would ever come into physical contact with him again.

“What the hell was that?” Wymack shouts, steadying Abby against his side.

Nathaniel grits his teeth and refuses to react. “I said I’m fine. Don’t touch me.” His voice lacks the malice that his instinctive reaction carried. He’s not angry at Abby. He’s just disappointed, because somewhere between waking up in Abby’s spare bedroom and now, he’d felt a bit of hope that maybe Abby was different. That bubble has been popped.

Everyone is the same.

Wymack doesn’t seem over it yet. “That doesn’t give you the right to _attack_ someone.” The coach takes a step forward that Nathaniel interprets as threatening. Given the issues that Nathaniel already has looking at Wymack due to the coach’s similarity in age and height to Nathaniel’s father, that sudden movement has Nathaniel flinching and bracing himself for a strike. For a moment, Nathaniel doesn’t breathe, and in that space, silence takes over. Wymack breaks it with a hesitant, “Natha-”

“Why don’t you go inside, Nathaniel?” Abby’s interruption is kind and gentle, and Nathaniel doesn’t deserve it. He probably sprained her wrist. At the very least, he’s leaving her with a nasty bruise and some swelling. Guilt isn’t a new feeling, and neither is knowing when to shut the fuck up, so he doesn’t argue with Abby, and he steps away from her and Wymack as fast as his broken body can take him.

Abby’s house isn’t really all that large. It’s only one story, which Nathaniel actually prefers. He hates basements, hates being underground. And he has a bad history with upper levels. It’s much harder to escape from a house when faced with a two-story fall, a hard truth that his father had never been shy to exploit.

Immediately inside of the front door of Abby’s house is a narrow entryway, with a welcoming mat to place shoes on and a series of mostly-empty coat hangers inside of a small doorless closet immediately to the left of the door. The tiny laundry room is across from the closet. Nathaniel kicks off his bloody and ruined shoes and places them carefully on the mat. He’s a Raven, not an uncivilized monster. A few steps inside and the short hallway ends, the rest of the house opening up before Nathaniel. The kitchen is to the right, including with a small island and missing a dishwasher. There’s a dining room off of the kitchen, with a brief hallway beyond that which leads to the master bedroom. To the left of the entranceway is the living room and the hallway leading to the bathroom and the lavender-scented guest bedroom.

Nathaniel enters the living room and takes a careful seat on the sofa. He wants to go lie down, wants to go sleep, but he can’t. And it’s not the pain, because he’s lived through enough of that to be nearly numb to it. It’s not even stubbornness or routine adherence to a training schedule that no longer applies to him. It’s just that, every time he closes his eyes and relaxes, all he sees is Riko.

Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, Nathaniel leans forward and groans. He just wants some peace, damn it. He just wants some sleep. But that’s apparently too much to ask, and his demons won’t leave him alone long enough to heal. But, Rome wasn’t built in a day. It’ll take more than twenty-four hours to undo seventeen years of horror.

“Headache? I can give you some ibuprofen or Tylenol.”

Nathaniel looks up to find Abby smiling tentatively at him. Wymack is nowhere in sight.

“I sent him home,” Abby says, giving Nathaniel a knowing look, a look that he can only tolerate because she doesn’t _really_ know. “He’s done enough for today, I think. Probably put some of your internal healing back a day at least, if not more.”

Nathaniel makes a face and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s shorter than he’s used to; he’d just cut it a few days before… well, it’s been less than a week since he’s cut it. “I don’t have a headache,” he says, meeting Abby’s gaze. “I’m… sorry, about earlier. You should put some ice on that.”

Abby shakes her head and steps further into the room, eventually sinking down into the armchair. “No, it’s not your fault. You’re not the first person I’ve treated who doesn’t like to be touched. I should have known better than to just do it. So I’m sorry for that, for not listening.”

It’s obvious that, despite Abby’s acceptance of Nathaniel’s outburst, she’s still expecting some sort of answer, some sort of validation for Nathaniel’s actions. But, not knowing how to explain to Abby why he nearly broke her hand just for the barest of touches, Nathaniel says nothing.

“Hm, well,” Abby says, and it takes a moment for Nathaniel to realize that she’s changed subjects, staring at the bright yellow pajama pants she lent him. “I suppose you’ll have to go shopping eventually. Can’t wear those horrendous things forever.”

Abby isn’t wrong, but the pajama pants and the Nirvana t-shirt are comfortable in a way that can only be found with clothing that has been worn, frequently, for years. He’ll be sorry to see them go. They’re the first pieces of clothing that he’s worn – that he can remember – that don’t have any ties to the Ravens, to Riko. “If you let me use your phone and a computer, I can order something from an online store. I don’t… the idea of shopping… being around so many people….” He shakes his head and makes a face at his unwillingness and inability to string together a coherent thought.

“Is… is everything alright?” Abby’s concern is a very foreign thing that Nathaniel thinks might quickly start to get on his nerves. He’s fine. He said that already, didn’t he? He’s survived on his own – minus Jean – for this long, hasn’t he? What does he need concern for? Concern, sympathy, pity… they don’t do shit to dull the pain or to take it away. They just make everything so much worse.

“I just don’t like crowds,” Nathaniel says, harsher than the words warrant. “I haven’t been in public for about eight years.” His gaze is as flat as he can make it. He doesn’t want to scare Abby away. He just wants to make her drop the subject.

She doesn’t take the hint. At this point, Nathaniel isn’t even surprised. “What? Why?”

“Because I’m a secret,” he says. She should have figured this out already, the same way that it shouldn’t have taken the Foxes so long to piece together Nathaniel’s identity. “I’m not old enough for college and not smart enough to graduate high school early and get a jump start. I was raised at Evermore. The Master kept me away from the press, kept me a secret, wanted to make a big publicity stunt out of my freshman introduction.” Nathaniel shakes his head, and one corner of his mouth lifts into a cruel smile. “Haven’t really seen daylight in the same amount of time. Not except under special circumstances.”

“That’s…. Oh, Nathaniel.”

“I don’t want your pity,” he says, tries and fails not to snap. “I’m fine.”

Abby shakes her head in dismay and leaves the room, but she returns a few moments later with a laptop tucked under her arm and a soft look on her face. “If you won’t take my pity, will you borrow my laptop and phone, at least? You might at least _look_ less pitiful if you’re wearing some decent clothes.”

Untrusting of the way she’s trying to play off the laptop and phone as a gift, as if Nathaniel hadn’t explicitly asked for them just moments ago, Nathaniel takes the phone and the laptop from Abby and settles further into the cushions. He doesn’t flinch at the shifting, but his shoulders tense at the spike of pain.

Having memorized this phone number years ago, Nathaniel dials and has a very quick conversation in French, and then he hangs up and pulls open the laptop.

“That’s a surprise,” Abby says.

Nathaniel glances up at her and types into the search bar. “Languages and math and Exy. The only things I’m good at.” He pulls up a page and double checks the numbers, and then he erases the search history and hands the cellphone back to Abby.

“How many languages do you speak?”

Though he doesn’t want to have this conversation, now or ever, with the Foxes’ nurse, Nathaniel figures that he owes her something, since she’s lending him her things. And letting him stay in her home free of charge. “Four. English, obviously, and French, Japanese, and Spanish. I’m also in the process of learning German, but I’m nowhere near fluent, so that doesn’t really count.”

“How have you… I mean, you can’t have studied those in school.” Abby’s dumbfounded expression is nearly enough to make Nathaniel feel pride in his accomplishments.

He shakes his head and pulls up a clothing website. He makes a face at his instinctive choice of the site and closes out of it, opening another random one that doesn’t have so much black. “I picked them up from people around me. My… my partner with the Ravens is French, the Moriyamas are Japanese, and some people who work for my father are Mexican. Some gave me lessons or mandated that I learn, and some of them just spoke it enough that I managed to piece things together. German is the only one I’m learning through school.”

A satisfied if not comfortable silence settles between them, during which Nathaniel spends seven hundred dollars on clothing and three pairs of shoes, orders a phone and a laptop for an additional roughly three thousand dollars, and checks the official website of the Edgar Allan Ravens. He’s not sure what he had been expecting, but no news has been posted about Nathaniel and his sudden disappearance from Evermore. He supposes that makes sense, though. To the public, Nathaniel doesn’t exist. And to the Ravens, Riko’s word is final.

“How have you been able to attend school if you haven’t been in public for eight years?”

So much for the peaceful quiet.

“I study online. It worked better for scheduling around practice.”

“You _practiced_ with them?”

Nathaniel arches his eyebrows and hands the laptop back to Abby. From her tone, he thinks that Kevin has been spilling some of Evermore’s darker secrets. At least those that Kevin is aware of. “Every day. No matter what.”

Abby stares at Nathaniel for a few more minutes and then gets up and leaves the living room. In her absence, Nathaniel sags into the cushions. He never wants to move again. But he knows that’s unrealistic. Maybe just… not for another day. He hasn’t stopped hurting since… fuck, since everything started with Riko and Jean and Isaak and the others, near Palmetto in the depths of midnight. He thinks that Abby is right, that being on his feet all day has set back his internal healing. Honestly, though, he’s had worse. He’s practiced through this much pain before, and without complaining.

“You look beat,” Abby says, once more announcing her presence with an unnecessary comment.

Nathaniel opens his eyes and sits up straighter. “I’m fine. Really.” At the Nest, he wouldn’t be allowed to sleep until late tonight. Here, he has the luxury of being able to go to bed right now, but he knows that if he tries, he won’t be able to.

If this was a normal day, he would be doing homework, waiting for Jean to return from class so that they could head off to practice together and hope that today isn’t one of Riko’s bad ones. He would be surrounded by black and red and the smell of the court. He wouldn’t be hurting this bad. And he wouldn’t feel so alone.

“I think I’m going to… go lie down.” He won’t be able to sleep, but at least he can rest in a quiet, dark room by himself.

It takes more effort than it should for Nathaniel to get to his feet, but he manages and, even though he sways a bit, he’s even able to take a step forward before the pain can knock him back down. He definitely re-tore something, some internal laceration.

“Wait,” Abby says, and then she rushes off to her bedroom. She returns shortly, her forehead pinched tight with concern. “Here, Nathaniel, take these. They’ll help with the pain, and they’ll help you sleep.”

Nathaniel looks down at the pills that Abby is offering in her extended hand. They’re round and light blue, and there are three of them. Distrust and doubt twist his stomach at the sight of the drugs, and it must show on his face, too, because Abby releases a small, disappointed breath.

But when Nathaniel looks up at her, Abby just smiles and says, “What? I just stitched you up and bloodied my sheets. You think I would spend all that time taking care of you just to do you more harm?”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Nathaniel says, smooth and easy like the truth frequently is, but he takes the pills anyway and turns towards the guest bedroom. He stops on the threshold, though, and turns back to Abby. She looks beyond her years, silver hairs starting to show along her temples, curling free of her ponytail. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Of course.” It’s apparent that she’s struggling to keep her expression neutral, to keep the curiosity and the pity and the sorrow off of her face. Nathaniel isn’t sure how much longer he can handle all of those emotions from this woman before they start driving him crazy. It’s too much, and he doesn’t have a court to run to right now. He doesn’t deserve anything from Abby, anyway, and even if he did, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Nathaniel nods, slowly, thinking about how best to phrase the request. He eventually just sighs and says, “You only need a cheek swab and a blood sample to test for STIs, right?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> healing is hard
> 
> chapter 11 was a bitch to write but i finished it so here

Dreaming of being suffocated is nothing new for Nathaniel, and neither is waking up and relearning how to breathe. But waking up without Jean across the room from him is brand new and terrifying and sends Nathaniel right into another panic attack. He gulps down air, shoving his head between his knees and counting backwards from ten thousand. He’s been sleeping dreamlessly for the past few days, helped by Abby’s medication, and now this, the first night without those pills, and he’s having nightmares.

He doesn’t wait until he’s completely steady before he lurches to his feet, heart still pounding in his chest. He knows that he needs to sit down, fold himself up and just fucking _focus_ , but if he stays still for too long, then Riko will find him vulnerable and take that advantage between his teeth, or someone else will. And it doesn’t matter that Nathaniel rationally knows that he’s not at Evermore, knows that he’s in the house of Abby Winfield, nurse for the Palmetto State Foxes, because the instinct to run is right there, right on the surface, and his only response is to grab it with both hands and follow it.

So he moves over to where his bags of clothing are stuffed together on the floor. Abby offered him the tiny wardrobe, but ultimately Nathaniel turned it down on the grounds that he didn’t want his clothes to smell like lavender. He supposes that’s inevitable, but that was the excuse he gave the nurse. Now he grabs a pair of running pants and pulls them on under the Nirvana shirt that Abby insisted he keep. Without thinking about where he’s going to go, only knowing that he need to get _away_ , Nathaniel makes for the door. It’s stupid – beyond stupid – not to stretch first, but he can’t wait that long.

As soon as his sneakers are on, Nathaniel is running.

Anxiety consumes him, sets his nerves on fire, pushes his heart racing on ahead of his feet as he shoves his way out of Abby’s house and bursts onto the street. The late-fall air, not even to the point of being sun-warmed yet, bites at him and rips at his shirt. His body screams at him to stop, stitches pull taught where they’re trying to keep his body together, but Nathaniel doesn’t care if they break. He can’t breathe when he’s sitting still, he can’t breathe in the early-morning darkness that blanketed Abby’s guest bedroom. He can’t breathe knowing that he’s been given up by two separate homes now.

Surprisingly, or maybe not, Nathaniel ends up at the court.

The Foxhole Court only has a peppering of exterior lights, just enough to illuminate the ground for the cameras, but even without them Nathaniel would have been able to spot the fluorescent orange through the darkness. A few days ago, the sight appalled Nathaniel, a testament to just how far he’s fallen. But now it’s his beacon, and Nathaniel picks up the pace, stretching his stride dangerously far considering he can’t see the ground beneath him.

Without proper control of his speed, Nathaniel catches himself against the metal door of the court, all but slamming into it. He staggers back a few steps, eventually coming to a stop about a yard from the door. Nathaniel stares at it, stares at the keypad, and then sags forward, hands on his knees, and tries desperately to catch his breath.

Three days ago, Wymack found him dying on the doorstep of this court. Today, he’s seeking salvation here.

Nathaniel presses in the code for the door, which he had seen Wymack enter a few days ago, and his fingers tremble just a bit as he pushes the door open and slips inside. Darkness envelops him, and his rapid breaths echo around him. For the briefest of moments, he’s back home, he’s at Evermore, the last to go to bed after cleaning his gear, so all the lights are off as he makes his way to the room he shares with Jean. The pain in his body only serves to make that thought more of a reality. The shiver that moves down his spine is Riko’s laugh, is Isaak’s touch, and lost in his rebounding breaths are the whispered words of others.

 _Move_.

Nathaniel forces himself forward, makes himself move, get away from a past that is no longer with him. He doesn’t bother turning the lights on, instead sliding his fingers along the wall to keep him straight and on track. He picks up his path through the innards of the Foxhole Court from his memory of them his first day here. Retracing steps in the dark is an unconscious skill by now.

He pauses outside of the locker rooms, the thought of borrowing some gear and a racquet a tempting one, but for once in his life, his body’s agony and exhaustion won’t let him. So instead he pushes forward, stumbling to the lounge and collapsing into a chair. Nathaniel pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. For a moment, he just stares into the darkness, distracted by the small red and green lights by the TV, and he lets the smell of an Exy court surround him, invade him. He falls asleep at peace with himself.

Only to jerk awake a few hours later to a smack on the back of his head.

“Call Wymack,” Andrew says, directing his voice back toward the locker rooms while Nathaniel tries to orient himself and breathe. “Tell him we’ll be there in five.”

“What… the _fuck_ ,” Nathaniel snarls past his stuttering attempts at inflating his lungs. He pushes unsteadily to his feet and glares at Andrew. His body hurts, _aches_ , and he can feel where he pulled stitches last night, where he’s already starting to bleed through the gifted shirt. Thankfully, he knows how to remove bloodstains, but it’s still oddly upsetting to think that he’s done damage to the shirt.

Andrew sweeps his gaze down Nathaniel, and Nathaniel can see just how unimpressed Andrew is, despite the wide smile on his face. Nathaniel is used to being looked down upon. It’s just usually from someone taller.

“Stay in the house next time and I won’t have to be the one who wakes you up,” Andrew says. His pupils are blown wide, so he must have recently taken his medication. That would explain the smile, too.

Nathaniel curls his lip. “Mind your fucking business, and don’t touch me again.”

Andrew laughs in a way that lets Nathaniel know the threat means nothing. Andrew is not scared of Nathaniel.

“Andrew, come on, we’re already late for –”

Nathaniel snaps his eyes to where Kevin has just entered the room, and something akin to a punch lands solidly on his chest and knocks his breath from his lungs. Kevin, looking exhausted and haggard with a mess of stubble and heavy bags under his eyes, has donned sweatpants and a Foxes t-shirt. The sight of the ex-Raven in orange is so _wrong_ that Nathaniel feels upended.

“Let’s go,” Andrew says, laughing again at the look Nathaniel turns on him. “Listen, Raven, you can walk to the gym or you can ride with us. Backseat’s open.” He leaves before Nathaniel can say that he could just as well return to Abby’s, that he could stitch himself back up and get on the next plane out of this state – out of this country if necessary. Kevin continues to stand in the doorway, even after Andrew has pushed past him, wincing as he looks at the blood now properly staining Nathaniel’s shirt. “Kevin,” Andrew says, voice sweet and melodic, “if you keep staring at him, I’m not going to stop him from gauging your eyes out.”

Kevin blinks and hurries after Andrew, leaving Nathaniel standing alone in the lounge, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to put his reality back together. He could still be dreaming, but he doubts it. Maybe there’s something in the water here. Maybe Andrew’s medications really do make him unstable and inconsistent. But Nathaniel knows better, and he’s not going to stand around all day trying to think through a three minute interaction, not when he has to catch a ride with Andrew. He isn’t stupid enough to think he can walk all the way to the gym, not in this condition.

“So you’re still an idiot, I see,” Kevin says once Nathaniel is seated in Andrew’s very flashy, very expensive black car with the door firmly closed and locked behind him. He doesn’t really care about getting blood on the seats. Andrew should know that peroxide will get it out, what with his supposed history.

“So you still only have a spine when you’ve got someone stronger supporting you, I see,” Nathaniel mocks, eyes moving to Andrew when the man laughs. It’s a good thing that Andrew has a pleasant, if slightly manic laugh, or else the sound would become grating very quickly.

“Oh, he’s got you there, Kevin.”

Nathaniel can feel Kevin’s scowl from the backseat.

“Why’d you run, Nathaniel?” Andrew asks, turning onto Perimeter Road harder than necessary. Nathaniel isn’t sure how he’s allowed to drive when he’s so drugged up. “Wymack’s threat of involving the police not severe enough to make you stay?”

“Why do you care?”

“Do not mistake curiosity for caring, Nathaniel.”

Although Andrew has a good point, Nathaniel still considers not answering. He doesn’t owe Andrew an explanation, and he certainly doesn’t _want_ to give one. He doesn’t want Andrew in possession of the knowledge that Nathaniel has nightmares, panic attacks, that he wakes up and feels water rushing down his throat, that he wakes up and hears his mother’s screams, that he wakes up and feels the weight of a car on his chest. Riko knows, and Riko used it against him. He isn’t about to give Andrew that kind of ammunition, that kind of control.

So he settles for an evasive truth, a non-answer. “Ravens sleep in the court. They have rooms built in and they call it the Nest. I’m not used to sleeping anywhere else.” Despite the fact that Nathaniel is positive Kevin never once ran to the court in the middle of the night, Andrew doesn’t call Nathaniel out on the omissive lie. The awkward silence that follows, however, does more than any follow-up words from Andrew could ever hope to accomplish. Nathaniel knows that he isn’t out of the woods yet.

By the time the three of them make it to the gym, which is, for unknown reasons, at almost the complete opposite end of campus from the stadium, the rest of the team is already immersed in their workout routines. Kevin doesn’t hesitate before he moves towards an open bench press, and Andrew gives Nathaniel a two-finger salute to his temple before turning away from him and following Kevin.

“Do I want to know?” Wymack asks. When Nathaniel turns to give the coach his attention, he catches Wymack’s eyes lying heavy on Nathaniel’s bloody shirt. “No, I don’t. Never mind. I’m going to call Abby.” Wymack looks ten years older when he points to a chair and tells Nathaniel to sit down, shut up, and not move if he knows what’s good for him.

Though Nathaniel doesn’t appreciate being told what to do, he doesn’t see a reason to fight the coach on this matter, so he sits on the foldout metal chair and tries not to wince at the pain that’s more in-focus than it’s been since Monday morning. He tips his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and just listening to the sound of the weight room. He wants to be doing that; there’s a pleasant phantom burn in his muscles from the memory of taking out his stress and anxiety and frustration on a treadmill.

Abby walks in a few minutes later, apparently having not been far away when Wymack made the call. She confirms as much when Nathaniel narrows his eyes at her. “I was going to bring you this,” she says, gesturing at the laptop in her hands. It’s Nathaniel’s, and he wonders briefly if he should start locking up his things in order to keep her away from them. The laptop already has a sixteen-digit password, but maybe, just to be safe…. “It’s a good thing I keep a first-aid kit in my car,” Abby says, dragging Nathaniel’s attention back to her. She smiles, but Nathaniel doesn’t return it.

By this point, Nathaniel can feel the weight of the Foxes’ gazes on him, and the attention makes his skin crawl. He looks at them, because not looking is worse. Most of the Foxes immediately look away, trying to deny the fact that they were being far too invasively curious in Nathaniel’s life. But Seth continues staring openly, a glint in his eyes that Nathaniel knows too well. Nathaniel narrows his eyes, and Seth raises his eyebrows and hands in mock fear.

“Nathaniel,” Abby says, getting his attention with a smile. “There’s an office down the hall that I can patch you up in.”

“Why?” Nathaniel arches a brow, instantly suspicious. So naturally, his reaction is less than kind. “Just do it here. Or can’t your little Foxes handle a bit of blood?”

“Oh, well, I just thought…”

Kevin, of all people, butts into the conversation, uninvited and unwanted by Nathaniel. “Ravens don’t get the luxury of being alone,” he explains, keeping his eyes off of Nathaniel and his good hand held in the air as the spot for Andrew to lift the bar to. Nathaniel takes a moment to reassess Andrew’s strength, noting the one hundred fifty pounds on the bar and the near ease with which Andrew is repetitively lifting it. There had never been any doubt in Nathaniel’s mind that Andrew’s strong, and he isn’t afraid of Andrew or worried about Andrew being a problem, but Andrew does rise a bit on Nathaniel’s list of people to keep an eye on.

Kevin continues, “We – they – are paired or grouped up immediately upon joining the team. Partners and groups sleep together, eat together, go to classes together, everything. And the rest of the team is always nearby. There’s only one locker room, one open shower room. Privacy isn’t a thing that they worry about.”

“Nathaniel isn’t a Raven anymore,” Dan says from her spot on the treadmill. Nathaniel likes the look of defiance in her eyes. No doubt she’s more than a little pleased that not one but two Ravens have found their way into the Foxes’ den.

“Aren’t I?” Nathaniel challenges, and he smirks when he sees Dan’s smile slip. “Don’t think you know who I am, Danielle.”

“Hey, asshole,” Allison says, upper lip pulled back in distaste, “we saved your life. You could be a little more grateful.”

“No you didn’t.” Nathaniel cocks his head to the side, assessing the Barbie girl. “Abby did. And Aaron helped. What have you done, exactly?”

Andrew sets the bar on the hooks and sits up. His forearms come to rest on his knees, with his hands dangling loose between his legs. Nathaniel doesn’t break his stare from Allison, but he notes all of Andrew’s movements from the corner of his eye, making sure that Andrew is not, in fact, going to be a problem. But, as Nathaniel assumed, Andrew doesn’t move further. Nathaniel has already figured out who Andrew is in charge of, and Allison isn’t one of them.

“Alright,” Abby cuts in, finally seeming to have gathered herself enough to take over. Behind her, Wymack is tense but unmoving, as if waiting for the inevitable cat fight but knowing that it’s necessary for dominance to be established. “We can do it in here. I’m sure you only pulled a couple, anyway.”

Wordlessly, Nathaniel stands up and pulls his shirt over his head. The men who were at Abby’s the night Nathaniel woke up to find himself abandoned and left for dead – Andrew, Aaron, Nicky, and Kevin – don’t react, because they’ve already seen how battered Nathaniel’s body is. The rest of the team react in various degrees of shock and horror. Raphael lets out a colorful string of swear words, followed by a murmur of Spanish that Nathaniel is too far away to catch. Allison bites her lip and looks away, though the guilt on her face is not strong enough for Nathaniel to believe.

Seth gives a smile that’s all predator, and Nathaniel zeroes in on that look. Normally, Seth’s 6’1” to Nathaniel’s 5’3” wouldn’t be a problem. Nathaniel could drop him in five seconds, with minimal damage to his own person. Now, Nathaniel marks that look and saves it, because he knows that Seth will come after him, and Nathaniel is going to have to be prepared when he does.

Right now, however, Nathaniel simply looks Seth up and down, then dismisses him, just because he knows it’ll piss the striker off.

Abby comes forward, taking the bandages off of the bleeding wounds and moving to start stitching him up again. Nathaniel stands still, staring at the Foxes who dare to return the look with one of sympathy. Wymack yells at them to get back to work, that they’re not going to ever kick the Jackals’ asses by standing around. Kevin backs up the decision with far less motivating words, and they all, reluctantly, obey.

“They seem pretty tame here, don’t they?” Abby comments as she wipes around one of Nathaniel’s larger cuts. “Wait ‘til tonight’s practice. They’ve sorted out their pecking order, but they still don’t get along.”

Nathaniel doesn’t think that the Foxes seem tame. He thinks that they are unsteady, erratic, irate, undisciplined. He misses the order of home, he misses the way all of the Ravens knew their place and fell into line without question. There are a lot of things he doesn’t miss, a lot of things he’s more than happy to be rid of, but he really does miss the steady reliability of their schedule.

“I know.” Nathaniel responds to Abby while sweeping his gaze around the room, distracting himself from the stinging against his side as the first stitch goes in. “That’s why you’re ranked last.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! Somehow, idk, it's been a while since I posted and I'm really tired but like... I finished chapter 12 so I wanted to update for you guys. I'm sorry it takes me so long like damn *flustered noises* but I appreciate everyone who is patient with me <3

Nathaniel didn’t go to the Foxes’ practice that night, or the night after. He avoided the Foxes, avoided Wymack. He stayed in Abby’s house all weekend, and he focused on healing. He took care of his wounds, cleaned them per Abby’s instructions. He did his homework.

But Nathaniel can’t stand to stay away from Exy for long, having never been away from it for more than an hour or two in his life, so Monday night finds Nathaniel sitting on the bench at the Foxhole Court, watching across the inner court as the orange-clad players move around.

The divisions in the team is glaringly obvious and horrendously intrusive upon the game. Nathaniel can’t bear to watch the whole time, offended to his core at the disgrace that this team is, so he occupies himself with his online lessons. He’s already ahead by about a month, but if he can finish early then it’s all the better.

On the court, Andrew and his monsters have formed one group, with Dan, Allison, Renee, and Matt as another, and the three fifth years as a third group. Seth is playing antagonist against them all, shouting insults at Allison one second and Nicky the next before playing dirty against Raphael. Nathaniel can’t hear anything that the players shout at one another, but it’s evident that Seth and Allison are on the outs despite being very close a week ago.

“Jesus Christ,” Wymack mutters after a notably violent almost-fight. Seth, apparently, is in a particularly foul mood today.

“I don’t think even he can save your team.” Nathaniel looks over at the coach, who is standing close enough that Nathaniel can hear him even under his breath, but far enough away that Nathaniel doesn’t feel crowded. After having not seen the coach in four days, Nathaniel notices that the older man seems more cautious around him now. Even the glare Wymack sends him for the comment isn’t as heated as it could have been. Part of Nathaniel is insulted at the tender treatment. The other part is happy for the space.

Across the inner court, Kevin bangs his fist on the Plexiglas wall and shouts at Andrew. There’s no way that the goalkeeper could have heard him, but Andrew flips Kevin off anyway. Andrew hasn’t raised his racquet since practice started, though he did run the laps and participate in the drills. That seems keeping with Andrew’s personality, but Nathaniel can’t help but think that, had Kevin succeeded in recruiting Andrew, Riko would have had a fun time breaking him.

 _Fuck_.

Nathaniel pinches his eyes closed and shudders. He hasn’t thought about Riko in days outside of his nightmares. “They’re not going to get better,”  Nathaniel says as a distraction for himself. “The seniors and Dan’s group would probably mesh pretty well if it wasn’t for the gross divide of years and experience. Jacob wants to be captain, and he really should be captain, so there’s that, too. Andrew’s group wouldn’t be so tense if they weren’t being antagonized. You’d have a better team if you got rid of the weak link.”

“Thank you for you professional opinion,” Wymack says dryly, glancing at Nathaniel for a moment before writing something down on his clipboard. “Seth’s an asshole, but he’s a good striker.”

Nathaniel snorts. “Seth’s a mediocre striker at best. Kevin has a broken hand and he could outplay Seth any day.”

“What’s your point, kid?”

Nathaniel’s lip curls at the casual way Wymack tosses the word _kid_ at him. “Nothing,” he snarls, moving his attention back to the laptop balancing on his thighs. He adds a finishing sentence to his essay about the Constitution and submits it without bothering with proofreading. It’s not like he can be failed out of his senior year as a home-schooled student. “It’s not my business. I’m not going to be here in another two months, anyway.”

“Planning a vacation already? January’s a shitty month for it,” Wymack comments before whistling at Kevin and pointing down to the away side of the court, where James and Seth are head to head. The only thing keeping them from throwing punches is the wrestling hold they have on each other.

“I’ll be eighteen by mid-January. You won’t be able to keep me here and you won’t ‘be obligated to call the police.’”

Wymack freezes for a long moment, and Nathaniel can feel the coach’s eyes on him, though Nathaniel can only see the man in his peripherals. He pulls up a math assignment and focuses on it the way the coach should be focusing on his team.

“You won’t be able to hide from them anywhere,” Wymack finally says. It’s a statement. Not gentle, exactly, but it’s softened.

“I know,” Nathaniel answers, and he gives up on the math. It’s not due for another week anyway. He releases a small sigh as he closes his laptop and sets it beside him on the bench. He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees and his head drooping down. The stitches on his sides pull, and the ones on his stomach bunch up and pinch together. He wants them out, but Abby won’t let him. They’re still too new, she says. Can’t have him bleeding everywhere. Nathaniel pushes a hand through his hair. He’s tired, tired of running, tired of no longer having a place to call home. He’s tired of having a target on his back, first by the other Ravens who were jealous of him and of his status as one of Riko’s chosen few, and now by Riko and Tetsuji themselves, though they may not know it yet. And as much as he has no love for the coach beside him or the players on the court, he doesn’t need that target getting put on the people around him. “But anywhere is better than here.”

“Abby’s guest room really that bad?”

Nathaniel bares his teeth in a feral smile and lifts his head so that Wymack can see. It’s a non-answer, but Wymack seems to understand well enough to know to turn away. Shaking his head, the coach walks up to the Plexiglas and pounds on the door before undoing the bolt and pulling it open. Practice stops, and with a whistle and an angry shout from their coach, the players walk off the court, all of them looking equally steamed. Except, maybe, for Andrew.

After sliding his laptop into its protective case, Nathaniel gets to his feet and stretches carefully. He ignores the Foxes as they walk past him, purposefully turns his back on Kevin. Nathaniel never thought he would be on a court with Kevin ever again, and while neither of them are playing, it’s still too close for comfort. He’s not in the Nest anymore, but with Kevin around, the line between _now_ and _then_ is far more blurry.

“Nathaniel.” Wymack pauses as he walks by, and Nathaniel turns to him, arching an eyebrow. “I’d like you to sit in on the meeting.”

“Why?”

Wymack shrugs. “Humor me.” He walks away without waiting for an answer.

Hating his curiosity and pocketing the knowledge that Abby will now be home before he will, Nathaniel follows after the coach.

Instead of standing beside Wymack at the front of the room like last time, Nathaniel places himself close to the door, leaning back against the wall. He’s not here to be put on display for the Foxes. Besides, this way he can get the fuck out of here once the meeting is over, before the other Exy players can even think about getting to their feet. Wymack looks back at him with an odd look, but the coach doesn’t say anything as his players choose that moment to start filtering into the lounge.

Apparently, the sofa that Andrew and his group took over last Tuesday has been claimed by them, because, even though they aren’t the first into the room, the others avoid it. That, and Nathaniel doubts the seats have been assigned. They’re all adults, supposedly.

Andrew taps two of his fingers to his temple in a mock salute as he passes Nathaniel, heading for his spot in the corner of the sofa. Kevin is immediately behind Andrew and takes up his spot just to the right of him. There is a little bit of space between them, but not enough for Nathaniel to think of calling it comfortable. Nicky and Aaron, however, are touching in more than one place, and Nicky and Kevin’s shoulders are pressed together. Nathaniel takes the opportunity of having Andrew’s back to him to narrow his eyes and think about the short goalkeeper.

“Hey, Nathaniel.” Seth’s sneering voice draws Nathaniel’s attention, and he turns his head to find the striker entering the room. He stops in front of Nathaniel and appraises him. Nathaniel doesn’t consider Seth enough of a threat for him to tense up and get ready for an attack, but the fighting stance that Seth is in lends a weary feeling to Nathaniel’s battered gut. Something bad is about to happen.

“Leave him alone, Gordon,” Jacob says as he passes them, heading for the sofa.

“Nah, it’s fine, we’re cool. Aren’t we, Nathaniel?” Seth’s grin is loose and stupid enough to be sloppy but sharp enough to be a shark. Nathaniel is reminded of too many men in his life for him to be phased, but his hackles raise. He should put a stop to this here, should walk away or try to put Seth in his place before things escalate, but… Nathaniel wants to see where this will go. “I just have a question for him,” Seth continues, leaning a bit into Nathaniel’s space. “Nathaniel is just such a _long_ name, so I’m thinking of what we could call him instead.”

Out of the corner of Nathaniel’s eye, he sees that Andrew’s attention has been snagged, which can’t be good. A smarter person, someone less prone to fighting, would take Andrew’s focus, rare as it is, to be the end-all point.

Nathaniel lives for fighting.

“Gordon, you have five seconds to sit your ass down before I have you doing laps all day tomorrow,” Wymack warns.

Seth’s selective hearing must not catch his coach’s words, because the striker maintains eye contact with Nathaniel. His smile doesn’t change. Nathaniel doesn’t move. “What should we call you?” Seth muses, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Jail bait, maybe?” Nathaniel stiffens, but he refuses to step into the trap being set for him. “You seem like you’d bend over for anyone.”

Nathaniel’s breath leaves him in a shuddering gust. His heartbeat kicks up until it’s in his throat, behind his eyes.

“Seth, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Allison demands, but her voice is fuzzy and dulled behind the blood rushing through Nathaniel’s ears, behind the faded moans and gasps and curses of other Ravens. In his peripheral vision, Nathaniel registers Andrew stirring on the sofa, sees Kevin grab the goalkeeper’s arm to hold him in place.

“No?” Seth snorts. “None of you have any imagination. Suppose we could always just call him Nathan, then –”

That, finally, is Nathaniel’s breaking point. In less than two seconds, Nathaniel has Seth pinned to the wall by the throat, and the tip of the knife that’s suddenly in Nathaniel’s hand is already buried in Seth’s abdomen. The pained noise that Seth makes is almost lost in the tight grip Nathaniel has on his neck, but it’s still music to Nathaniel’s ears. The swelling of shouts from the Foxes, however, is not.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

“Get him off him!”

“Is that a fucking knife?”

Everyone is shouting at once, and Nathaniel can easily picture them moving restlessly in place, unsure whether they should approach or stay away. Audible above everyone else is a string of mad laughter that could be coming from no one but Andrew.

Someone breaks the pacing and decides to move towards Nathaniel and Seth, probably hoping to diffuse the situation before it gets worse. Nathaniel would put money on Wymack having made the decision to save his striker.

Without taking his eyes from Seth’s reddening face, Nathaniel snarls, “You come any closer, and I’ll gut him right here.”

The room freezes. The only thing keeping it from falling into a deathly sort of quiet is Andrew’s continued cackling.

The others dealt with, Nathaniel leans into Seth’s space, tightening his hand around Seth’s throat and twisting the knife just enough to cause a spike of pain. Nathaniel relishes the momentary look of discomfort and fear in Seth’s eyes. That alone is worth the strain he’s putting on his own wounds. “Now, you listen to me, and you listen very closely,” Nathaniel says, voice soft and smooth and quiet. He could get drunk on this kind of power. “This is your only warning, and next time I won’t hesitate to cut you from groin to throat. Don’t you ever, _ever_ call me anything except ‘Nathaniel’ again. I am not a pet. I am not a toy. And I am _definitely_ not a Nathan. Do you understand me?” His knees feel weak at his own defiance to the mentality that raised him. He’s not going to bow anymore. Seth’s eyes flash with resentment and challenge, and Nathaniel pushes the knife in further. “I said, _do you understand me_?”

Through obvious effort, Seth nods just once, and Nathaniel instantly lets him go and steps away. He watches in disgust as Seth – coughing and wheezing and clutching his soon to be bruised throat – drops to the floor, knees hitting the ground hard. Nathaniel wipes the blood from his knife onto his shirt before folding the blade into the handle and tucking the weapon away out of sight.

Disgusted by the picture Seth makes, Nathaniel turns to Wymack, who is indeed standing the closest to them. Nathaniel ignores the stares of the others, ignores Andrew’s fiercely amused smile. Somewhere along the way, his laughter had stopped. “I’m leaving,” Nathaniel says, and when no one challenges his statement, he moves to the door. He stops on the threshold, however, and looks back over his shoulder at Wymack, who is still staring at him with an unreadable expression. “Don’t forget,” Nathaniel says, voice steady despite the trembling behind his ribs, “that I warned you. Weakness is an infection, and it’s better to cut it off before it spreads.”

He leaves with that hanging in the air, and he lets the door slam closed behind him.

It’s colder outside today than it has been since Nathaniel was dumped at Palmetto. But this is the south, and “cold” is a relative term here. Still, it’s not comfortable walking weather back to Abby’s house, and he’s sore when he arrives and collapses on the sofa. He beat Abby home, after all.

It’s not even a half hour later when Wymack arrives, entering without knocking. There’s a storm behind the coach’s eyes and a mask over his features, but there’s also a bottle of whiskey in his fist and no one else to back him up. They’re alone. Nathaniel can see several pros and cons to this situation, but he decides to focus on the pros and ignore any ghost of his father that may be present.

“Thought for sure you were going to call the cops,” Nathaniel says. He holds out his hand for the whiskey when Wymack steps further into the room.

Wymack, for his part, passes over the unopened bottle. “If you really thought that, you wouldn’t be waiting here right now,” he says, and Nathaniel doesn’t disagree with him, but he does watch carefully as the coach sinks into the armchair. “The next time you’re going to cut up one of my players, you should let me know beforehand.”

Nathaniel flashes a grin that’s all teeth and cracks open the bottle to take a long swig. The alcohol burns, but in a friendly, familiar way. It’s smooth, not cheap, and Nathaniel is grateful for that, too. “Seth’s fine. One stitch and he’ll be good to go. You won’t even have to bench him or anything.” Nathaniel shakes his head, his grin slipping and a long sigh escaping him. He sets the bottle down on the side table between them. His body sags, heavy, back into the cushions.

Wymack doesn’t let the silence last for long. “Why don’t you like that name?”

“Personal reasons.”

“Nathaniel –”

“David,” Nathaniel quips, his face suddenly hard, ready to defend himself despite the dull ache that is his bruise of a body. Abby is not going to be pleased. “Drop it.”

For a moment, Wymack looks like he’s going to fight Nathaniel on the subject, but he wisely lets it go. “Kevin talked to me after the meeting,” the man admits, taking the whiskey from the table and putting it to his lips. “He suggested that you might do better living in the dorms with them.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what Kevin thinks.”

Wymack narrows his eyes. “I do. And I care that you’re still slipping out of Abby’s house in the middle of the night and walking to the court, despite the fact that you can’t get in anymore.”

Nathaniel narrows his eyes. “You’re the asshole that changed the code.”

Wymack’s hands flap in front of him in frustration. “You’re impossible. Look, just… I’m going to ask the directors tomorrow. I might be able to get you in with Matt and Jacob. I’ll toss Seth in with James and Raphael.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“I don’t care.”

Nathaniel’s jaw works. The freedom he’s tasted in the last week is beginning to sour in his mouth. Recognizing his lack of influence in Wymack’s decision, he says, “Seems like a lot of moving around. If a bed’s open with Brown and Cortez, it would be easier for me to move in with them.”

“Matt and Jacob are more approachable,” Wymack says, brushing aside Nathaniel’s contribution. “I was trying to get them to tame Seth, but since that’s not working, maybe they can tame you instead.”

Nathaniel curls his lip and yanks the whiskey from Wymack’s loose fingers. “You can only beat a dog so many times before it starts biting back. I’ve been beaten a lot, David, and the sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't finished chapter 13 yet; it's being a pain in the ass. It's just... not coming along and I don't know why. But it's been a long damn time since I updated this, so here's chapter 7

It takes another two days before Nathaniel is moved into the athlete’s dorm on campus – Fox Tower, according to Wymack. Abby didn’t say anything about Nathaniel’s departure from her house, though she hadn’t looked approving.

Nathaniel taps his phone against the palm of his hand. There are more numbers programmed in now – after Wymack insisted upon putting in all of the Foxes’ numbers as well as his own and Abby’s – than there has ever been in Nathaniel’s life. Before it was just Riko, Kevin, and Jean. Tetsuji never needed a phone number.

Nathaniel gets out of Wymack’s car and stares up at the roofline of the four-story building. The outside of the dorm is a cracked, vine-strewn red-orange brick, and the windows into each room are small and, for the most part, covered by curtains.

“Third floor,” Wymack says through the open passenger-side window. Nathaniel represses a shudder. Off the ground, too far to jump. But at least it’s not the basement. “Matt promised he’d leave the door open; you’re going to be in room 321. Seth’s moved rooms already so… try not to get into a fight with anyone else, got it? I had a hard enough time convincing the directors as it was.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Nathaniel reminds him, sarcastic tone lost somewhere in the back of his throat. He just sounds conversational. “But, sir, yes sir,” he mocks as he grabs his clothes – now piled neatly in a brand new duffel bag – and slams the door shut. He’s never been good at keeping his sarcasm in check. He ignores Wymack’s grumbling and walks away. Like the court, this building also requires a code, but unlike the court, Wymack actually told him this one.

There’s an elevator, but Nathaniel takes the stairs. He wants to run, needs it with an ache that’s bone-deep, but he can’t, because, for the first time in his life, he wants to heal properly. If he was still at Evermore, he would be practicing with the team despite his injuries, running drills with Jean at his side. But he’s not at Evermore, he’s at Palmetto. And he’s not running drills, he’s climbing three flights of stairs. Neither of those things are good substitutes.

The last person Nathaniel expects to see today is Andrew, but the blond is on the landing of the third floor, leaning his shoulder against the wall with his legs crossed casually at the ankles. Strong arms are folded loosely over his chest, but Nathaniel instantly notices the way Andrew fingers the edge of his left armband and the flash of silver underneath.

“What do you want?” Nathaniel asks, not in the mood.

Andrew’s responding smile is floppy and loose, a contradiction to the steel behind his eyes. “I just want to say hello, welcome you to the Tower,” Andrew says lightly before pushing away from the wall and into Nathaniel’s space. Nathaniel lets himself be crowded against the wall, but he drops the duffel bag to free up his hands, just in case. “I heard Abby and Wymack talking about a blood test earlier. I do hope it’s not contagious.”

Nathaniel clenches his jaw, working the muscle while he glares down at Andrew. “What’s it to you?” The results of the STI testing had come back yesterday, all in one plain, large envelope. He had asked Abby to read him the results as he sat on the edge of the sofa, picking at his fingernails. The relief he felt at the negative results was staggering. If he had tested positive for anything, his Exy career would have been over before it even had a chance to begin. All those years practicing, fighting, and clawing his way to the top of Riko’s list would have been worth nothing. All of that pain would have been for nothing.

“Oh, just protecting what’s mine,” Andrew says. “I know from Kevin that Riko doesn’t rape people, so I’m just sitting here wondering why you would be concerned about having an STI.” Andrew’s voice is sugar sweet, childlike, even, but Nathaniel can hear the venom dripping.

“Riko doesn’t rape people,” Nathaniel confirms, meeting Andrew’s eyes with a steady look that’s just shy of being a glare. “But he doesn’t have any qualms about _having_ people raped.” With that, and completely done with the conversation, Nathaniel picks up his duffel bag and pushes past Andrew, knocking their shoulders together on his way by. He doesn’t miss the way Andrew tenses at the contact. “Oh, and by the way,” Nathaniel says, pausing for a moment and adjusting the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder, “Kevin shouldn’t be your only source of information. He was Riko’s second and a member of the family. He didn’t have a lot of hell to go through,” he says as he walks away.

There’s silence from Andrew for only a second before he laughs and shouts after Nathaniel, “She said you were clean, _by the way_.”

Nathaniel stops and turns back to Andrew. “I know,” he says, tilting his head to the side. Andrew’s smile falls, and Nathaniel takes that as his cue to leave.

He knocks on the cracked-open door of room 321 and steps inside.

“Nathaniel is that –” Jacob sticks his head out of the kitchen and stops talking when he sees Nathaniel. “You look like you woke up with a rattle snake in your hair.”

“Close enough,” Nathaniel mutters. The suite looks more like an apartment than a dorm. From the entryway, the setup vaguely resembles Abby’s house. To the right is a kitchenette, with a half-wall set up to section it off from the living room and to provide more counter and cabinet space. Straight ahead is the living room, where there’s a sofa and an armchair angled together and ultimately facing a television. A PlayStation is hooked up to the flat screen, the controllers abandoned on the floor in front. A short hallway to the left leads to an open office-like room where three desks are shoved up against the walls, two of them covered with books and paper. Nathaniel takes another three steps into the suite and he can see the bathroom that dead-ends the hallway and the bedroom to the right.

Matt’s voice carries from the bedroom. “Jacob, did you take my green pillowcase?”

“Why the fuck would I take your green pillowcase, Boyd?” Jacob asks, moving towards the bedroom and motioning with a tip of his chin that Nathaniel should follow. “Did you ask Seth? Nathaniel’s here, by the way.”

Nathaniel stops on the threshold of the bedroom, taking in the quarters that he is to be sharing with the two men. The layout of the room is almost identical to his old room at Evermore, but the walls aren’t painted black and red, and there are three beds, not two. The lower bunk closer to the door is the only mattress free of sheets, so Nathaniel assumes that it’s his.

“Hey, Nathaniel,” Matt greets without looking up from where he’s digging around in one of the three short dressers. “And no, I didn’t ask Seth. Do you really think he would take them?”

“Well, I mean, it is Seth we’re talking about.”

Without responding to Matt’s greeting, Nathaniel steps into the room and drops his duffel bag onto the lower bunk. He double checks to make sure that he has his wallet and his phone, and then he turns around and heads back to the suite door.

“Wait, where are you going? Aren’t you supposed to be resting and healing?” Jacob asks, walking after him.

“Shopping. And yes. But I need sheets and whatnot.” It would be nice to just… spend his money, stock up on material possessions again. Shampoo, conditioner, a better toothbrush than the flimsy one dollar green piece of plastic Abby had given him. Everything that he’s ever owned was left at Evermore, and it’s probably all in the trash by now.

Jacob snorts, spreading his legs into a wider stance and folding his arms across his chest. Nathaniel isn’t intimidated; he doubts that he was meant to be. “Look, no offence, but you’re still in high school. How much money can you have? Let Matt tag along, at the very least. His dad’s loaded.”

“Stop selling my body without my permission, Jacob!” Matt shouts from the bedroom. Muffled cursing and the slamming of a drawer follows, but the backliner doesn’t emerge.

Nathaniel stares blankly at Jacob. On court, the striker’s instincts are superb. It seems that he falls short once the jersey comes off. “I have almost two hundred fifty thousand dollars sitting nearly untouched in an offshore bank account. I think I’m alright, thanks.” He sweeps his eyes around the suite, skipping right over Jacob’s startled face, looking on the counters and the coffee table in front of the sofa. “Do I get a set of keys, or…?”

Someone clears their throat from behind him, and Nathaniel turns to see Nicky smiling sheepishly and leaning against the door frame. His guilty laugh has Nathaniel narrowing his eyes. “Hey, yeah, sorry. Andrew stole these.” Nicky tosses two keys to Nathaniel, who catches them easily and continues to stare at Nicky, waiting for an explanation. He figures that living with Andrew ought to make Nicky an expert at reading pissed off facial expressions. And he’s not wrong. Nicky holds up his hands in a warding-off gesture, trying to convey his innocence. “Don’t give me that look; I don’t know why he does half the things he does.”

“Because he’s fucking crazy,” Jacob offers unhelpfully from the hallway.

Nathaniel ignores him; he’s already established that Jacob’s perceptions of people are lacking. “Why’d he send you over?” he asks, tucking the keys into his pocket.

“Nicky, what are you doing here?” Matt calls from the bedroom, finally joining the conversation and prolonging Nathaniel’s answer. Jacob’s rattlesnake metaphor is becoming more and more accurate as the day goes on. “I can’t play right now – need to find my vanishing green pillowcase.” And broaden his selective hearing, Nathaniel thinks, but he bites his tongue on it.

Nicky arches an eyebrow, looking over Nathaniel’s shoulder to Jacob. Nathaniel doesn’t turn to follow Nicky’s gaze, but apparently Nicky finds Jacob’s response satisfying because he looks back at Nathaniel. “He wanted me to tell you that he’s extending an invite for you to come with us. And by invite I mean that he’s not giving you a choice.”

“Oh?” Nathaniel isn’t impressed or scared, if that’s was Andrew is trying to go for. He’s irritated at the attempted order, but other than that he’s mostly just intrigued. “And where are we going?”

As if expecting the question and not wanting to tell, Nicky shifts his weight from one foot to the other and glances towards the hall – and assumingly the bedroom beyond. Nathaniel feels Jacob stiffen behind him right before Nicky says, “It’s just going to be a short little overnight trip to Columbia.”

“ _What_?” From the bedroom comes a loud bang, the slam of a drawer, and then Matt’s quick footfalls approach down the hall. Shoulders stiffening at the rushed approach, Nathaniel twists around so that he can watch his back. Matt appears, green pillowcase nowhere in sight, with a stony look on his face. “No. Your fucking monster of a cousin is not allowed to take Nathaniel to Columbia.” Matt’s voice is steady, the look in Matt’s eyes is one of fear. 

Nicky winces and drops his gaze. “Nothing bad is going to happen,” he assures, though Nathaniel can hear the tremor in his voice. Not even Nicky believes what he’s saying.

Matt calls him out on it. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. Stop lying for him,” Matt says, and it’s as close to a snarl as Nathaniel has yet to hear from him. “I’m still talking to Betsy, and it’s been _months_.”

Nathaniel doesn’t have time to be curious about the name drop, interested instead in the origin of Matt’s anger. So he turns to Jacob, who, aside from glaring, seems the least affected by this emotional mess. Jacob catches Nathaniel’s intrigued look and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Andrew and his crew took Matt to Columbia at the beginning of the year. Whatever happened got Matt clean, but he’s been going to see Betsy, our psychologist, since it happened. He was more or less a walking coma patient for the first month.”

Understanding settles into Nathaniel’s bones, and he turns his eyes back to Matt, letting his gaze settle on the crook of Matt’s arms. Perhaps feeling his gaze, perhaps responding to Jacob’s explanation, Matt lifts his long sleeves to expose the scarred track marks. Silence drops, an anvil hanging heavy over the room, sent crashing down only by the one who put it there. “Don’t fucking go, Nathaniel. Put your foot down. Andrew’s a psychopathic monster, and he doesn’t give a shit about collateral damage.”

That, Nathaniel thinks, remains to be seen. Andrew’s mood hasn’t been consistent enough for Nathaniel to be able to peg him. He wants to peg him. He wants to know where he stands with Andrew, the largest potential threat at the whole of Palmetto State.

“I’ll go,” Nathaniel says, without thinking about it further.

“You’ll _what_?”

“Great!” Nicky’s voice is just loud enough to carry over Matt’s incredulous accusation. Nicky’s smile is wide, and his eyes light up, but faking it is something that Nathaniel is all too familiar with.

Maybe Andrew has never heard that you’re not supposed to kill the messenger.

“He, um…” Nicky, hesitant once more, bends down and reaches towards the floor on the hallway side of the door. “Andrew said to give you this.”

Nathaniel looks at the paper bag stamped with the brand of a hoity-toity clothing label. Unimpressed, he moves his eyes back up to Nicky’s tan face. “I have my own clothes.”

Nicky bites his lip and steps inside the room, the bag still held out. Nathaniel steps back, and Nicky’s masking smile slips a bit. “Please? He doesn’t buy gifts for anyone, like, ever.” Nathaniel continues to stare blankly. “If not for him, then for me? They’ll look good on you, I promise.” Nicky’s gaze sweeps over Nathaniel from head to foot, snagging only once on the visible ring of bruises around his neck, but otherwise taking in every place where muscles show through Nathaniel’s clothes – shoulders, biceps, thighs. Nathaniel knows a hungry gaze when he sees one.

He takes the clothes, if only to get Nicky to stop looking at him like that. Shivers build at the base of Nathaniel’s skull and threaten to trickle down his spine. He can feel the phantoms of the other men at his back. He doesn’t meet Nicky’s eyes, because he knows that his own are haunted.

He needn’t have worried, because as soon as the bag is in Nathaniel’s hands, Nicky claps excitedly and spins from the room. “We leave Friday night at nine,” Nicky calls, and then he’s gone, leaving Nathaniel with a paper bag in his hands and two older men at his back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooooo this isn't Columbia. I forgot that there was a filler chapter in between. My bad ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

After being in South Carolina for nearly two weeks, Nathaniel decides to finally go to a Foxes game. Not necessarily because he wants to, but because it’s better than being alone in an unfamiliar place, though not by much.

Since the Foxes are a terrible team and the laughing stock of NCAA Class I Exy, they didn’t advance past the first semester. They made regionals but not districts. But, although their season is over, they’re not done playing. Scrimmages are offered against other teams that didn’t make it into playoffs; it’s a way to keep the teams focused and in their best shape. Exy is the only college sport with a season that lasts the whole school year, with only a month of downtime for most teams before training starts up again. None of the losing teams – and there are a lot of them – are ever ready to give up the game so quickly.

So, Friday evening, despite being out for the season, the Foxes file into the Foxhole Court for a scrimmage against the Jackals.

Scrimmages are treated more like high school games, where the rules are a little more strict, no one tries quite as hard, and the announcer is usually a student who has a tendency to swear too much and has an obvious bias for the home team. Nathaniel doesn’t know this from experience, as he never played high school Exy, but he watched some tapes. That was his first introduction to the real sport at ten years old. He doesn’t count his little leagues team as real Exy, and neither did Tetsuji. When Nathaniel was sold to the Moriyamas, they gave him a week of watching high school games to learn the foundation, and then he was thrown onto the court with Kevin and Riko and, later, Jean.

Nathaniel narrows his eyes at the Foxes from his position against the wall. Since this is a home game, they’re gathered in the foyer – the room closest to the court where the press is allowed in after games – and everyone is standing around in their gear, helmets and gloves off. They’re talking, but they’re not talking about the game they’re about to play. No, they’re chatting about the weekend, classes, and anything other than the reason Nathaniel can still breathe. He doesn’t understand how they can be so unfocused about something so important.

Nathaniel has been trying to catch Andrew’s eye since he walked into the room, wanting an explanation about the keys and the invitation to Columbia. But the tiny goalkeeper has been effectively ignoring Nathaniel since Wednesday afternoon, and apparently he isn’t about to stop now.

When there’s thirty minutes to serve, Wymack claps his hands to get his team’s attention. “Listen up, assholes,” the coach says. Even Nathaniel can hear the affection in his voice; he thinks it’s misplaced. “Starting line is Jacob, Raphael, Dan, Matt, Aaron, and Andrew. I know the Jackals aren’t your favorites, but if anyone gets a red card, I will sign you up for the next marathon. I have the forms in my office. Three o’clock tomorrow. Don’t think I won’t do it. Anyone have any questions?”

Andrew lifts his chin with a short jerk. The action catches Nathaniel’s attention immediately. “What did you bring me this time?”

It’s far beyond Nathaniel to understand what the fuck Andrew is talking about.

Wymack narrows his eyes in understanding. “It’s a surprise. Now get out of here, all of you.” He turns to Dan, and his eyes soften. “Take them on their laps.”

Nathaniel watches passively as the orange-and-white-clad players leave the lounge led by their captain. He notes the way Andrew avoids looking at him. He notes the uneasy glance Matt gives him. He pays special attention to the jealous way James stares at the back of Dan’s head. Mostly, though, he watches Seth purposefully walk too close to him and step on his foot. The message is clear; the striker isn’t yet done fucking with Nathaniel.

It would have been too easy for it to have ended with Nathaniel’s knife in Seth’s stomach. It would take more intelligence and self-preservation from Seth in order for that threat to hold.

When the room is empty save for Nathaniel and Wymack, Nathaniel says, “Forewarning you that I’m going to cut up one of your players. Again.”

Wymack sighs and deigns not to answer as he follows his team out of the lounge. After a moment trying to interpret the lack of response and only coming up with the coach’s acceptance and possibly encouragement, Nathaniel goes as well.

The stands are nearly empty, which doesn’t surprise Nathaniel at all. The outcome of this scrimmage doesn’t matter to anyone or anything; even if they win, it won’t affect their standings for the year. Nathaniel already knows what the result will be, so he plops himself down on the bench and pulls out his laptop. He may as well be doing something useful while the Foxes warm up.

For the limited amount of time that Nathaniel has actually been around the Foxes, it’s startling how quickly they’ve seemed to accept his presence. When they finish their laps and return for a quick drink and some stretching, they don’t say anything about Nathaniel sitting on their bench. They just part around him like a stream around a stubborn rock. He has become, without meaning to, a shadow in their lives taking up space on their court.

Even in the dorms, Nathaniel has an influence on the Foxes. He had once more, unsurprisingly, awoken near two in the morning, jerking awake in the middle of being drowned, in the middle of suffocating, in the middle of being shoved into the dark with whispered words of _this will make it go away_. Above him, Jacob had shifted quickly enough on his bunk that Nathaniel knew he was awake, but neither of them said anything about it.

Nathaniel hadn’t been able to fall asleep afterwards. At the Nest, Nathaniel found ways to occupy his mind when he woke up in the middle of the night, found ways to make himself exhausted once more, to the point of nearly passing out. But here Nathaniel doesn’t have free range of the court, and he certainly doesn’t have Jean to keep him and his destructive thoughts company.

 _Jean_.

Thinking about his partner is a punch to the gut, leaving Nathaniel frozen and breathless and staring blankly at his computer screen. What part had Jean played in all of this? Nathaniel has no doubt that Jean had a hand in what had happened – not by choice, but because Riko is a sick fuck, and Jean is scared of him. Not that Nathaniel blames him. Both of them had been pets to the Moriyamas, to Riko specifically; Jean still is. But Nathaniel is the son of a family “friend,” and a good investment in the future of the Moriyamas, thus he got treated less like a mangy mutt and more like a breeding bitch: something displeasing and unwanted, but necessary.

Jean is disposable, Nathaniel is… he just is.

Feedback on the speakers pulls Nathaniel back into the Foxhole Court, where he’s suddenly sitting beside Renee. His computer is still open on his lap, displaying a list of math problems. Nathaniel exits out and puts his laptop away.

“Everything alright?” Renee asks, reaching out to put a hand on his arm.

Nathaniel moves before she can touch him. Thankfully, just jerking his arm away is enough to make her stop. He waits until her hand is firmly back on her lap before he says, “I’m fine.”

The announcer proceeds to call out the names of the Foxes’ starting line, and then says Wymack’s name and Kevin’s, listing them as coach and assistant coach, although Kevin’s title is unofficial. When that’s done, the announcer moves on to the Jackals. Both teams line up on the court, and a referee flips a coin.

Jackals get first pitch, and everything goes downhill from there. The Jackal dealer throws the ball down the court, and the strikers are waiting for it.

“Sloppy,” Nathaniel says under his breath, judgment heavy on his tongue.

“Who?” Renee asks, though her eyes stay firmly on the game, taking in Aaron’s attempt at blocking. Kevin paces off to Nathaniel’s right with a starved look in his eyes, as if not being able to play is a worse agony than watching his new team fail so miserably. “The Jackals or us?”

Nathaniel makes a face and an offended noise when Andrew doesn’t even try to block the shot on the goal. “Both. The Jackals could have had that goal faster if the dealer had served to their goalkeeper. Your defense should have easily been able to shut this down. This is child’s play. And I’m not even going to get started on Andrew. There’s a reason you’re last-ranked, and it’s right here in front of you. The Foxes would never last in a match against the Ravens, or even Penn State, for that matter.”

“It’s easy to judge in hindsight,” Renee says, flicking a glance over to Nathaniel before she turns her attention back onto her team. Renee’s serenity and religion put Nathaniel off just on principle. However, there’s something deep and dark in her eyes that Nathaniel recognizes. This darkness makes Nathaniel more apt to trust her, but it also makes him leery of her.

“This isn’t hindsight,” he says, gesturing his hand toward the court in a lazy sweep. The Jackals have the ball again. “Seventeen is going to pass short to twenty-three. Aaron is going to try to block him, so twenty-three is going to pivot on his left. Matt is going to try what I assume to be his damnedest, but he’s not fast enough to stop a surprise whip. Twenty-three, still in possession of the ball, is going to whip it to seventeen, who is going to duck around Matt’s left side because Matt is going to be diving to the right for the pass he just missed a second ago. They’re going to score. And this whole time, the Jackals wasted precious seconds not realizing that Andrew isn’t trying, or else twenty-three could have scored as soon as Aaron was up in his face.”

As Nathaniel talks, the game plays out, a half step behind his narration. He can feel Renee’s stare on him, and Wymack, having overheard, has turned to gape as well. Nathaniel doesn’t care. If they’re not good enough to predict their opponents, they shouldn’t be playing the game. It’s only interesting when two teams know what’s going to happen, because then every move has to be unusual, and everyone is surprised. Both the Jackals and The Foxes are insults to the sport.

After a successful block, Matt and Aaron bump fists and share a quick grin, crossing over the boundaries Nathaniel had placed everyone in at his first practice. Nathaniel’s thoughts turn once again to Jean, who never smiles on the court, not even if he blocks an impossible shot. Jean, who always sees ways he messed up or places he could improve. And, of course, Riko is always there to reinforce those ideas, to make sure that Jean knows that he will never amount to anything more than what he is. And what he is, is number four.

Jean did smile off the court, although rarely. Nathaniel caught him at it twice. Once, when Nathaniel mocked Riko behind his back – Jean actually laughed, and they both got punished for it. And another time when Nathaniel talked Jean through the last Christmas Nathaniel had with his mother.

It’s almost too easy for Nathaniel to picture himself and Jean taking up defensive stances on the court in front of him, the image superimposed over the game currently taking place. Kevin and Riko are facing them, and there’s no goalkeeper because there doesn’t need to be. Riko and Kevin will have to fight for it, but eventually they’ll break through the barrier that Nathaniel and Jean put up – they always do.

Jean starts with the ball, throwing it about to half court so that the strikers have to run for it. This gives Nathaniel and Jean time to bend their knees and brace their bodies. In their gear they are identical except for the height difference of nearly a foot. Jean gave him shit about being so short until Nathaniel outran him by two minutes on the mile.

Riko, with the ball in his net, runs at Jean. There’s a fine balance playing defense against Riko, and it’s something Nathaniel has only had to endure once. If you don’t do your job well enough, you’re punished for it. But if you do your job too well, if you don’t let Riko score at all, you’re punished for that, too. There can only be one number one, and it has to be Riko.

In his black and red gear, Kevin runs at Nathaniel, waiting for an opening while the Foxes’ goal lights up red behind Andrew. Nathaniel bares his teeth at Kevin, pushing him back, back, back, not allowing him an opening to receive a pass. Riko has used up his steps and is waiting for either Jean to fuck up or for Kevin to get open. Nathaniel gives a good natured laugh when Kevin tries to pivot past him. Nathaniel blocks his way. “Move faster, Day,” Nathaniel says, hardly breathless despite the moves he’s been making against Kevin.

The Foxes finally have the ball, and Riko, having decided that Kevin is out of the play already, does a complicated pivot, passes to himself, and then spins off around Jean. Nathaniel breaks from Kevin before he can put too much thought into it. He can’t stand the hollowed look in Jean’s eyes, can’t stand that wide-eyed fear that’s barely masked by the glazed look that comes from making this mistake more than once. Nathaniel runs at Riko and, just as the striker takes the shot, Nathaniel steals the ball and hurtles it down the court.

He stands there, breathless now because of fear, because he knows that he didn’t take Jean’s punishment away and instead just made it worse. But now, at least, Jean won’t have to suffer alone. Riko raises his racquet behind Nathaniel. Kevin looks away. Jean meets Nathaniel’s gaze because they suffer together, thrive together, live together. They don’t abandon each other in moments of pain.

Jean doesn’t even flinch when the racquet comes down on Nathaniel’s shoulder.

“Nathaniel?” The Jackals’ goal lights up red, and Nathaniel isn’t conscious of the fact that he’s on his feet, breathing heavy, until his name is spoken. Renee is looking at Nathaniel with concern; on the other side of Renee, Nicky looks on with curiosity.

“I’m fine,” Nathaniel says through clenched teeth and rapid breaths. He shudders and twists around, looking wide-eyed around the stadium. He’s positive that he can feel Riko’s eyes on him.

“Whoa, whoa, kid, take a brea-” Wymack’s sentence is only half out, and then Nathaniel is running.

Wymack tries to stop him as he runs past, but the coach isn’t fast enough to grab him. Nathaniel pushes into the foyer, skids and twists through the lounge and the hallways and bursts from the stadium, already at a dead sprint and not ready to stop anytime soon. He can’t get enough air into his lungs, and his stitches pull taut against his skin, but he doesn’t care about that right now, doesn’t care about anything, because if he does – if he starts to care – he’s going to care too much. And that’s not going to do him any good when he’s hundreds of miles away from Jean.

He runs to the dorms because that’s the only thing he has right now. A space that’s his, clothes that are his, a room that smells nothing at all like the Nest. Getting through the front door takes too much time, and he goes too fast up the stairs and trips, landing hard on his knees and cursing violently. His rabbit heart refuses to slow. His palm slaps into the step above his face as he pushes to his feet and starts running again. He shoves past a football player and then barrels down the third floor hallway to the room he shares with Matt and Jacob.

Fingers fumbling with the keys, Nathaniel struggles for a long moment getting the door open, and his heart stops and restarts twice before he finally gets the lock open and trips over himself getting into the suite. It’s dark except for the light from the window, and Nathaniel leaves it that way. He draws the blinds in the bedroom to make the dark nearly perfect, and, heart in his throat, he finds a tight corner to slip into.

There isn’t enough oxygen in the air. He struggles for breath as he shoves himself into the small space, but he tucks his knees to his chest and pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt to make the darkness complete. His back is pressed into the corner, the bunk bed trapping him in on his other side. Nathaniel slams his fist into the wall beside him, again and again in the rhythm he wants his heart to fall into, in the rhythm Jean would have pounded against his back to make him start breathing.

Nathaniel heaves out a dry sob and breaks. He wraps his arms tight around his knees and grips his hair with his fists until his elbows and knuckles ache. His body wracks with tears he won’t let fall. His shoulders shake from being pinched so tightly together in the small space.

It doesn’t take long for the fear to choke him, to become the primary source of his panic, and he pushes roughly from the corner, twisting and nearly tripping in the middle of the room to stare back at the spot he had just been occupying, to make sure that he is still in room 321 of Fox Tower in South Carolina, and not in the basement of his father’s house in Baltimore.

His lungs are raw and his throat burns, but the panic from the memory is blocked out by the panic from the cramped space. But with each new breath, even that starts to fade.

It was Jean’s idea. Fight or flight kicks in with fear. _Make yourself scared, and then save yourself, and the panic will go away._

 _Breathe, Nathaniel_.

“Fuck you,” he whispers, and doesn’t mean it. Roughly, he wipes his cheeks to make sure they’re dry, and then he makes his way into the kitchenette in search of any alcohol that might be stashed away.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short(er), but Columbia has begun!!!

When Jacob and Matt return to the dorm around eight thirty, Nathaniel has seated himself in the armchair. There’s disappointment in Jacob’s eyes. Nathaniel doesn’t ask how the game went, and neither Matt nor Jacob ask what happened to Nathaniel to make him run. All Matt asks is, “Are you okay?” and all Nathaniel says is, “No,” and the conversation ends right there.

He’s not okay, and he can admit that after shakily coming out of a panic attack and typing out a message to Jean before forcing himself to delete every fucking letter. He had tried to do some homework, hoping that he could distract himself with the easy familiarity of pre-calculus, but his hands shook and the computer screen was too bright. He’d given up before he could push himself to the point of wanting to throw his laptop across the room.

Nathaniel hadn’t been able to find any alcohol in the kitchenette, and he’s pissed off and strung out, and he forgets about his promised trip to Columbia with Andrew and company until Nicky knocks and leans his head into the suite.

“Hey, Nathaniel!” Nicky’s voice is bright and happy despite the Foxes’ loss. Nathaniel looks over at him, blank-faced, but when he doesn’t tell Nicky to leave, Nicky steps into the room. He doesn’t close the door behind him, which calms Nathaniel a little. Jacob disappears down the hall, but Matt stays, body tense, and stares at Nicky. Accusation rolls off of him.

Nicky is already dressed for the night, and it’s the clothes that remind Nathaniel of his obligations. Tight black jeans move up Nicky’s legs from black boots, and a ripped black shirt is pulled over a rainbow tank top. From the outfit alone, Nathaniel gets a good feel for the place they’ll be going tonight. “Are you…” Nicky falters when he sees that Nathaniel is still dressed in his black hoodie and blue jeans. “You’re still coming, right?”

Nathaniel taps his thumb against the inside of his knee in a staccato rhythm. He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t trust Andrew or Nicky. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near Kevin. And he certainly can’t fight off all of them. But he promised. And he’s curious. “Yeah, I am. Just let me get dressed.” He knows he’s not going to like where the night goes, but being anywhere is better than sitting here staring down at his phone and trying to reason with himself why he can’t contact Jean.

“We’ll wait for you in the hall,” Nicky says, and promptly leaves. He closes the door behind him.

Matt immediately walks over and locks it. “You don’t have to –”

“I know,” Nathaniel says, rising from his chair and stretching his arms above his head. He’s not as sore from his run as he thought he would be, and he didn’t pull any stitches. Hopefully he’ll be free of them sooner rather than later. “I know I don’t have to go, but I’m going.”

Jacob makes a noise as he reenters the room. The bathroom fan buzzes at the end of the hall. “If you need anything,” he says, passing Nathaniel to flop down on the sofa, “don’t hesitate to give us a call.”

Nathaniel doesn’t know what to do with that statement. He’s not sure if it’s kindness or coercion or maybe a bit of both. He doesn’t trust it, and he doesn’t know how to say thank you without doubt creeping into his voice. So, with no words to give to Jacob, Nathaniel goes to their bedroom and digs out the bag Nicky gave him on Wednesday.

_“He doesn’t buy gifts for anyone, like, ever.”_

This isn’t a gift. It’s a dare, and Nathaniel wishes he would have looked at the clothes sooner. He would have bought his own to supplement, regardless of how greatly that would have pissed off Andrew.

The pants, when Nathaniel pulls them on, are skin tight and so black that they seem to absorb the light that hits them. His legs look thinner and longer in them. They rest low on his hips, and Nathaniel stares in the mirror at the waistband and his exposed hipbones for a long time before pulling on the scraps of a shirt that Andrew picked out for him. The shirt is black with rips in it, like Nicky’s, but the similarities end there. The rips on Nicky’s shirt were horizontal and wide; the rips on Nathaniel’s shirt are diagonal, thin, and far more frequently occurring. And, of course, Nathaniel doesn’t have anything beneath the shirt.

He takes another moment staring at himself in the mirror. He could put on a tank top underneath the shirt, but he knows how well that would go over with Andrew, and he decides not to pick that fight, at least not now. His eyes again catch on the waistband of the low-riding jeans, which is still perfectly visible because the shirt doesn’t fall that far.

The dare is strikingly obvious once Neil notices the bandages peeking out from the rips in his shirt, stark white beneath the black. If they’re going to a club, which Nathaniel can only assume based on this outfit and Nicky’s, then the white is going to stand out like a neon sign in the dead of night, whether or not black lights are involved. And if the bandages can be seen, then a knife would be visible as well, and there’s certainly no room for a weapon between his jeans and his skin.

Nathaniel bares his teeth at his reflection and yanks off each and every bandage, exposing the stitches and the healing wounds beneath. He shudders at the cool air that brushes the sensitive skin, and he takes a moment to clench his fists and get a grip on himself. This isn’t part of the dare, and it’s a stupid thing to do. Who fucking knows how filthy the club is. Nathaniel could walk out of there with all sorts of diseases. At the very least, his injuries could – probably will – get infected. But it doesn’t matter. If Andrew is going to do this, then Nathaniel is going to throw himself into it one hundred and ten percent. Maybe that will wipe the smug smile off Andrew’s face.

 _Calm down_.

One deep breath follows another. Nathaniel counts them off so that he doesn’t rush and trip over them. He doesn’t need to start hyperventilating now. When he’s composed, he walks from the room, stopping only to throw away the bandages and slip his phone in one tight pocket and his credit card and keys in the other.

Matt and Jacob are both sitting on the sofa when Nathaniel walks into the main room. He doesn’t look at them except out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll be back,” he tosses over his shoulder before exiting the suite and locking the door behind him.

Andrew, Nicky, Aaron, and Kevin are all waiting for Nathaniel in the hallway outside of their suite. Everyone is wearing black, but only Nicky shares a ripped shirt with Nathaniel. Andrew’s gaze sweeps up and down Nathaniel, snagging on the outlines of the items in his pockets, and then on the longest, most lethal cut on his abdomen. He smiles, and Nathaniel’s blood boils.

Kevin notices the exposed wounds as well and grimaces. He opens his mouth, but Nathaniel can see the chastising remark building on his lips, and he’s quick to shut him down with a flippant, “I don’t need or want your opinion.” Kevin snaps his mouth closed and turns away, jaw working.

Aaron has a look in his eyes that Nathaniel can’t quite sort out, but his mouth is set in a firm line that tells Nathaniel that Aaron still remembers quite clearly helping Abby stitch Nathaniel back together.

Only Nicky can’t seem to see the marred skin, though he’s definitely looking at everything else.

“Holy shit… Christ, I knew you would look good, but I never thought… _fuck_.” Nicky looks like he’s about to start drooling, so Nathaniel takes one step back, and then another. Nicky doesn’t seem to notice. “Which way do you swing, Nathaniel? Please, please tell me you play for my team.”

Nathaniel goes from boiling hot to ice cold at Nicky’s comment.

“Jesus Christ, Nicky. Can you not be so fucking creepy for just one night?” Aaron demands, shooting a glare at his cousin from the corner of his eye. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

Nicky waves his hand dismissively. “I’m sure I can convince Erik to share me with Nathaniel. I mean,” he waves his hand at Nathaniel in a quick sweep that has Nathaniel biting his cheek to keep from flinching, “can you blame me?”

“Nicky.” Andrew’s tone is civil, but the step he takes towards his cousin is anything but.

“I don’t swing,” Nathaniel says before the conversation can get any worse. He knows that Andrew carries knives under his left armband and he knows what that smile hides. At this point, he just wants to get the night over and done with. He wants Andrew to stop being a problem for him. Nicky opens his mouth in what looks like protest, so Nathaniel adds, “At all,” to shut him up. It’s not strictly the truth, but his voice is hard and forceful enough that Nicky closes his mouth and drops his eyes.

Nicky perks up rather quickly given how hard he was shut down. “Just wait until you see the club, Nathaniel. Holy. Shit. It’s like a dream come true.”

Nathaniel doubts it. Tightly-packed bodies, loud music, dark spaces, and Andrew’s complete and undivided attention sound like the worst things Nathaniel can imagine at the moment, except for being back in his father’s hands. This is a step down, but the tension in Nathaniel’s gut tells him that it’s not a very big step.

“Let’s go,” Andrew says, turning around and walking away. Everyone falls into place behind him, though Nathaniel hangs back a bit. Andrew leads them all down the stairs and into the back corner of the parking lot, where his expensive black car is parked. Nathaniel tilts his head curiously when Andrew tosses the car keys to Nicky, who easily walks over to the driver’s door and gets in. Kevin slides into the passenger seat. “Get in,” Andrew tells Nathaniel, who is watching Aaron get into the backseat on the other side.

“Why am I in the middle?” Nathaniel asks, turning to sweep a look over Andrew. Touching at all is going to be bad enough. It’s going to be so much worse trapped between two bodies.

“Do you want to be thrown up on?” Andrew laughs, though it sounds strained. Nathaniel leans forward in the partial darkness. The orange illumination from the streetlights is just enough to reveal what Nathaniel failed to recognize in the dorm; Andrew’s pupils are not dilated. A new understanding of where this night is more than likely headed settles heavy into Nathaniel’s bones. Clenching his jaw closed, he gets into the backseat, scooting over to put himself in the middle. Andrew follows him in and slams his door. Nicky peels out of the parking lot fast enough to slam Nathaniel back against the seat.

By the time they hit the interstate, Andrew is fast asleep against the door, and Aaron is dozing on Nathaniel’s other side. Nicky is chattering away, voice carrying over the music on the radio. Nathaniel thinks that he may be talking about the club, or perhaps the Foxes, but he’s not really paying attention. He’s mostly zoned out, his mind wandering back to the outfit that Andrew chose for him and what sort of subtle subtexts could be hiding behind the clothes.

If Riko had dressed Nathaniel like this, then there would be only one way for the night to end. Nathaniel’s pulse skitters at that thought, getting severely sidetracked. He tries to reason with himself that Riko isn’t here. Obviously, Andrew’s first intention had been to render Nathaniel weaponless, but…. But. Nathaniel can’t stop his mind from catching on Riko, on what Riko would have done, or more specifically, what Riko would have had someone else do.

Nathaniel tries to keep his breathing and his spinning thoughts under control, but being trapped between two warm bodies is already making him nervous, and now his memories are stuck on rewind and fast-forward, pausing and replaying the worst of it.

“What the fuck?” Aaron says from Nathaniel’s left. He can feel Aaron’s body shift away, pressing more against the door.

“Nathaniel, are you okay?” Nicky asks, concerned, from the driver’s seat.

_“Have fun with him. I don’t want to hear anything, though. You wake me up, you’re going to regret it.”_

An elbow slams so hard into Nathaniel’s diaphragm that he immediately doubles over in pain, wheezing in a breath that pulls a cough from his startled lungs. Andrew is awake. A heavy pressure settles on the back of his neck as Andrew uses him for balance and leans forward to look out of the windshield. “Pay attention, Nicky,” Andrew says, voice bored. “You’re going to miss your exit.” The car swerves and Nathaniel grits his teeth as his hip presses into Aaron’s for a brief moment. When the car straightens out, Andrew speaks up again. “Pull over.”

“Andrew –”

“Now, Nicky,” Andrew snaps. The car stops so suddenly that Nathaniel doesn’t even have time to brace himself; his head slams into the center console, and he curses and jerks from under Andrew’s hold, hand coming up to rub the top of his head. Before the car is even at a full stop, Andrew’s door is open. Nathaniel sits up, breathing steady, just in time to hear Andrew retch and spit on the side of the road. The car falls silent but for the music still pumping from the speakers. It takes a moment of shaky breathing, but eventually Andrew pulls himself back into the car and closes the door.

Nicky steers the car back onto the road and drives away. Nathaniel turns to Andrew. He notices the tremor in his hands, the sweat at his temples. Withdrawal sets in fast, apparently. “Why did you hit me?” he asks, still able to perfectly feel where Andrew’s elbow collided with his chest. He’ll have a purple bruise by the morning, if not already settled in by tonight.

Andrew blinks slowly and then quickly, as if waking up from a daydream, and turns to Nathaniel, who waits for the too-wide smiles that he’s come to expect from Andrew over the last couple of weeks. Instead, after a few moments of eye contact, Andrew just turns away and looks out of the window. “Don’t wake me up if you don’t want me to hit you.”

“I didn’t wake you up,” Nathaniel says, defensive.

“Didn’t you?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! here's the chapter that everyone has been waiting for!!!! Eden's has arrived!
> 
> Also, I wanted to update everyone on the timeline (since I'm the World's Slowest Updater™)
> 
> Nathaniel was dumped at Palmetto on a Monday (I'm ballparking somewhere around the middle of November, maybe the 17-20 idk I don't really have a specific date it's not really vital). It's ~5am when Kevin's phone goes off and jumpstarts the whole thing, and Nathaniel was probably dumped at ~4:30am. Wymack found him at ~5:30am.
> 
> Tuesday - Nathaniel is introduced to the Foxes. He also changes the name on his offshore bank accounts and orders new clothes, a computer, and a phone, and he asks Abby for an STI test. It was a busy day.
> 
> Thursday - Nathaniel wakes up in the early morning from a nightmare and runs to the court. Abby re-stitches some of his wounds in front of the team.
> 
> Monday - Nathaniel goes to an evening practice with the Foxes and gets into a fight with Seth afterwards.
> 
> Wednesday - Nathaniel moves into Fox Tower, situated in room 321 with Jacob and Matt. He agrees to go to Columbia with Andrew & Crew.
> 
> Friday - Nathaniel finally goes to a Foxes' game and has a panic attack. Columbia (this chapter) is also situated on this day.

They don’t go to the club first.

Nicky pulls the car into a space toward the back of a parking lot belonging to a small, brightly-lit diner called Sweetie’s. It’s the exact opposite of what Nathaniel has spent the two-hour drive preparing himself for. It’s so… tame – just a regular diner that serves food but specializes in pies and cakes and cookies and ice cream.

While everyone else is standing by the door waiting to be seated, Andrew walks over to the salad bar, which is mostly barren at this time of night, and grabs a few packets of saltine crackers. He’s already nibbling on one by the time he regroups, and Nathaniel narrows his eyes at him.

It takes a few minutes – why, Nathaniel doesn’t know; the place is nearly empty – but they’re finally seated at a booth. Nathaniel gets shoved into the corner with Andrew on his right and Kevin just beyond that. Nicky and Aaron take the other side. The host leaves them with menus and then disappears. Nicky smiles and nudges Nathaniel under the table with his foot. “Cheer up. Sweeties isn’t a place for frowning. The ice cream is really good.”

Nathaniel could – and almost does – argue that anyplace could be a place for frowning, but instead he leans back and folds his arms over his waist. It takes concentration to keep from hissing at the abrasive discomfort of digging his stitches into his arms. His elbow knocks into Andrew’s beside him. Andrew doesn’t budge, but he does look down at Nathaniel’s folded arms. Nathaniel waits for the challenge that’s heavy on Andrew’s lips, but the goalkeeper just turns away.

A waitress stops by soon after. Nicky hands her the stack of menus that never made it around the table. “We’ll just have the ice cream special, please,” he says with a winning smile.

The waitress’s eyes move over to Nathaniel in the corner of the booth, and, for a moment, confusion perches on her brow, but then she simply returns Nicky’s smile and says, “I’ll be right back with those,” before disappearing with the menus. She returns a short while later, passing out bowls of ice cream and depositing a large pile of napkins in the center of the table. “Let me know if you need anything else.” She smiles again and leaves them alone.

Against Nathaniel’s side, Andrew once more begins shaking from the withdrawal. Nathaniel glances at the pile of napkins, and then looks back at Andrew. When nothing happens, Nathaniel opts to mind his own business. He scoops up some ice cream and lets it melt in his mouth. Not knowing exactly what he was expecting, he makes a face and pushes the bowl away.

“What’s wrong, Nathaniel?” Andrew asks, voice just as sweet as the ice cream. It must take a lot of effort to continue pretending to be medicated when he so clearly is not. “Not good enough for you?” Nathaniel wonders who the show is for. It’s not like any of the people beyond their booth know the conditions of Andrew’s probation.

“I don’t like sweets,” Nathaniel answers. “Including these.” He reaches out as he speaks, flicking a napkin off the top of the pile and pulling out a packet of yellow powder from underneath. He pinches the corner between his fingers and gives it a shake. Kevin is staring pointedly down as his bowl of ice cream, which is untouched and already melting, but everyone else seems very interested in what Nathaniel is going to do.

“No one said you had to have any,” Andrew says. “More for us.” His smile is gone now as he takes the packet from Nathaniel’s fingers and rips it open.

“Andrew,” Nicky hisses, “we’re in public.”

Without bothering to respond, Andrew tips the contents of the packet into his mouth, clean and easy, and drops the empty wrapper on the table. Aaron sighs and scoops the rest of the packets from under the napkins and tucks them away on his person. Nathaniel occupies himself by stirring his ice cream.

What little conversation there was is now gone, and they sit in awkward silence until Andrew, Nicky, and Aaron have finished their ice cream. It only takes five minutes. Aaron clips a stack of twenties to the bill that the waitress brought back, and then they depart from the diner.

If inner-city traffic hadn’t been an issue, the club would have only been a ten minute drive from Sweetie’s. But, right before midnight on a Friday, it takes them thirty. When Nicky finally does pull up outside of the club, Nathaniel is far beyond eager to get out of the car. Andrew has stopped shaking, but he’s also tipped back an additional two drug packets. Nathaniel knows he’s just imagining things, but Andrew looks more corporeal now than he has for the past two weeks. This is the man Nathaniel met his first night at Abby’s. Nathaniel still isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not.

The bass from the club – the bright blue neon sign above the door christens it Eden’s Twilight – shudders the car seat under Nathaniel’s thighs every time the club door opens. He wonders how the cops haven’t been called on this place. Maybe this section of city isn’t residential enough for the noise to be a problem.

Aaron gets out of the car, and for the moment the door is open, sound floods the interior – yelling and off-key singing and, above everything else, muted electronic dance music. Then the door slams closed and the illusion of silence is reestablished. Through the window, Nathaniel watches Aaron partake in a complicated handshake with one of the bouncers, all the while striking up a conversation with them. The second bouncer passes Aaron a bright orange piece of paper, and then Aaron returns and hands what turns out to be a parking pass to Nicky.

Nathaniel gets out when Andrew does. Kevin and Aaron join them on the curb, and Nicky drives off to, assumedly, find a place to park. Nathaniel can’t stop staring at the club entrance. Now that he’s here, panic begins its slow crawl up his throat. The amount of people standing in line, waiting to get in, is already overwhelming, and Nathaniel knows that the amount of people inside is going to be many times that.

He isn’t given time to think about it. Andrew leads the way inside, saluting the bouncers and bypassing the line completely. Complaints arise from somewhere, but they mix too well with the music for Nathaniel to be able to distinguish any words. Kevin follows Andrew inside, and Aaron pushes Nathaniel ahead of him. Jumpy as he is, Nathaniel is desperately tempted to turn and hit him.

It takes the better part of five minutes for them to find an empty table. There are a few empty glasses on it, but Aaron is quick to clear them away.

“Find another chair,” Andrew says to no one in particular and grabs Nathaniel’s wrist before he can sit down. Nathaniel stumbles when Andrew jerks on his arm, dragging him away toward the bar and leaving Aaron and Kevin behind at the table. At the risk of spraining his wrist, Nathaniel twists against Andrew’s grip. The crowd swarms around them. “Don’t touch me,” Nathaniel says, raising his voice to a shout to be heard over the music. The bass through the floor jars his bones and liquefies his muscles. Andrew tightens his grip for a moment, but then he lets go.

Andrew parts the crowd with brute force and jabbed elbows until the people around them get the hint and back off. Nathaniel stays close in Andrew’s wake, not wanting to get caught up in all the bodies. “Roland,” Andrew calls when they reach the sanctuary of the bar. There are three bartenders working quickly at helping customers, adding just enough flair to earn tips, but not enough to slow down the production. A tall bartender a few people over finishes serving a young woman before stepping in front of Andrew.

The smile on his face is genuine, and Nathaniel can’t figure it out.

“Just the usual for us.”

“Who’s this?” Roland asks, setting a tray on the bar top and beginning to make drinks. There’s no flair this time, just efficiency.

“This is Nathaniel. He’s new,” Andrew says dismissively.

“Kind of late to be joining the season, isn’t it?” Roland asks, beginning to set drinks on the tray, shots first in a ring around the center. There’s something good-natured and teasing about his tone. Nathaniel wonders if all bartenders are like this, or if he should be bracing himself for something.

“I’m not a student,” Nathaniel says. He watches Roland’s hands, not his face, keeping an eye on what he’s doing.

Roland’s hands pause. “You old enough to drink?”

“Don’t pretend you care.”

Roland laughs, plunking a mint leaf into a drink and turning to face Nathaniel better. Nathaniel risks a glance up, just for a moment, and then his eyes return to where Roland’s hands have disappeared behind the bar. “What’ll you have, then?”

“Whiskey,” Nathaniel says, the reply automatic. It’s not like he’s been exposed to a lot of variations of alcohol. “Or whatever. I don’t care.”

“You got it.”

Andrew leans over into Nathaniel’s space and says in his ear, “I wasn’t expecting you to drink.”

Nathaniel looks away from Roland long enough to glare at Andrew and contemplate pushing him back. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Andrew roughly grabs the back of Nathaniel’s neck before he can look back at the bar. Resisting Andrew’s grip does nothing when Andrew can bench press one hundred fifty pounds for five minutes. “That’s why we’re here,” Andrew says, and with the music so loud, his words sound like a whisper.

Only when Roland sets two tumblers of whiskey on the tray does Andrew release Nathaniel and pull away. He gives Roland a two-finger salute to his temple, and then he picks up the tray and guides Nathaniel back to the table. Nicky has joined Aaron and Kevin by the time Nathaniel and Andrew make it back. Nicky smiles and winks at Nathaniel before stepping aside to offer him a seat.

Nathaniel stands.

Andrew passes out drinks, and the packets from Sweetie’s come out of Aaron’s pockets and get distributed. Even Kevin takes one. Nathaniel finds himself both disappointed and not surprised.

“You sure you don’t want one?” Nicky asks, dragging Nathaniel’s attention to him by flapping his packet between his fingers. “They don’t really do much except give you a nice rush. Not addictive at all, just makes the night more enjoyable.”

“I’m sure,” Nathaniel says. He doesn’t believe that any sort of drug can fuck with the chemicals in your brain and not leave a lasting impression. Whatever that yellow powder is, he doesn’t want it. “I’ll stick to the whiskey, thanks.”

Nicky shrugs and upends the packet into his mouth. Nathaniel reaches for a tumbler of whiskey and swirls it before taking a sip. He freezes, and the noise amplifies around him, bass rushing past his ears – or that might be his heartbeat. He looks down at the amber liquid in his glass. Maybe Roland took him up on his “or whatever” and got him something that isn’t whiskey. Nathaniel swallows what’s in his mouth, waits a moment, and then takes another sip.

This time, Nathaniel knows what that sweet tang is. His memories of it are years old, but his association with the taste is not something he could forget. If Nathaniel was smart, he would bolt right now, find a place to hole up for the night, and get the fuck away from South Carolina in the morning. But with Andrew’s eyes on him, Nathaniel tips his drink back in one go.

Better to just get this over with. If Andrew feels like he needs to use drugs to gain such a severe upper hand, then, well… it soothes Nathaniel’s pride a bit, at the very least.

“Nicky,” Andrew says, flicking his fingers towards the dance floor. “Aaron, you go, too. I need to talk to Kevin a moment.”

Before Nathaniel can protest, Nicky has his arm around Nathaniel’s waist and starts leading him away from the table. The bass makes Nathaniel’s knees weak, or maybe it’s the drugs already in his system. Nicky helps Nathaniel down the stairs and onto the dance floor.

The mass of writhing bodies swallows them immediately, and they disappear from the view of the table with only a few steps. Nathaniel’s pulse rises to his throat, and the panic is right there, scratching behind his teeth, tearing his tongue to shreds. He tries to tug away from Nicky, needing to be anywhere else, far away from the condensed space between sweaty, dancing bodies that keep bumping into him and jostling him around. He is a shipwreck in angry waves. Nicky holds tight and pulls Nathaniel around to face him.

In a moment of clarity between his panic and the drugs ready to render his body pliable, Nathaniel understands that he’s not the sinking ship. He’s the sailor trapped in the wreckage, being slowly drowned on his way to the bottom. He knows what’s going to happen now, but he’s too slow to stop it. Nicky puts a hand on Nathaniel’s chin before Nathaniel can put a hand on his chest and push him away. His face is tipped up, and Nicky’s grip tightens to keep him from pulling away.

In the next second, their lips are pressed together and Nicky’s tongue is in Nathaniel’s mouth, transferring whatever drug was in those packets onto Nathaniel’s tongue and down his throat.

Nathaniel’s body seizes and he goes numb from head to foot, but his mouth stays pliant as Nicky continues to kiss him, past the point of the drugs dissolving on Nathaniel’s tongue. Nathaniel closes his eyes and he’s not here, he’s not in the club, he’s in his room at Evermore, or another identical black room. He’s blood in the water, bait cast overboard without the threat of a hook, and the men around him are sharks. It’s not dark in the room but Nathaniel has a hard time seeing anything. His vision is blurry, and he thinks maybe it’s tears, but he looks at where it drips on the floor and sees that it’s blood. There are hands on his skin that he doesn’t want, slipping under his shirt, below his waistband, grabbing and pulling until Nathaniel thinks he might be ripped apart. There are lips on his neck and mouth, wet and hot and starving. _No_ , he thinks, but his lips aren’t working. Someone calls him pretty, someone says his name, someone pushes him against a wall, someone grabs the back of his neck and pulls him down.

“ _Nathaniel_ ,” Andrew growls, and Nathaniel jerks back to the present, to the club, where the music is still pounding in his ears and through his body, where his back is shoved firmly against a wall. Andrew is standing in front of him, staring and frowning with a hand on Nathaniel’s chest and the other firmly gripping his neck. A quick scan of his surroundings shows Nicky standing beside Aaron several feet back from Andrew, Kevin off to the side but in between the cousins and Andrew. “What happened?” Andrew asks, voice cutting through the sound around them without difficulty.

In the silence that follows, Nathaniel isn’t sure who’s supposed to be answering Andrew. Nathaniel is just beginning to build up a string of lies when Nicky starts speaking. “I… I just….” Nicky is shaking, and he can’t seem to find his voice.

Nathaniel’s knees drop out from under him so fast that he doesn’t have time to even think about catching himself. The drugs from his drink and from Nicky’s tongue have finally hit his system in full. Andrew snags him under his armpits just before Nathaniel’s knees hit the floor, and he pins Nathaniel against the wall with his body weight alone. It’s just Andrew’s shoulder, arm, and hip, but the contact makes Nathaniel nauseous. His brain sloshes around in his skull, and he makes a strangled noise in protest of the feeling. But he can’t fight back, and wouldn’t even if he could. He’s pinned and trapped and he’s just going to have to ride this through to wherever it leads.

“Nicky,” Andrew snaps, and his cousin visibly shakes again.

“I just kissed him, Andrew. You said to give him the crackers and I didn’t know how else to get it in his system, so I just….” Nicky trails off when Andrew turns to look at him. “I didn’t know this was going to happen.” Even to Nathaniel’s ears, Nicky’s protest is weak.

Andrew turns back to Nathaniel, and his weight and his arm shifts against Nathaniel’s stitches. Andrew is no longer pretending to be high. His face is blank, eyes staring _through_ Nathaniel in a way that unnerves him to his core. “What’s wrong with you?”

A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up from Nathaniel’s chest, but he shoves it down. He shakes his head slowly, and the world takes its sweet time catching up with him. It takes him a few tries, but eventually his lips and his vocal chords work together long enough for him to say, “I still have the tendency to hope for things.” He thought it was going to be different here. He thought… _fuck_ – he had hoped that Palmetto and the Foxes would be different, that being abandoned by Riko to the team that Kevin willingly ran to would be better. Nathaniel hadn’t planned on being here long, was terrified of the ease with which the Foxes made room for him in their lives, but he’d been hoping that this would be a good place to balance himself and heal before he left.

Acknowledgement of that hope sends Nathaniel reeling. He hadn’t realized what he’d been feeling until the words are out of his mouth. He was wrong to hope.

Andrew studies Nathaniel a second longer before shifting them around and pulling Nathaniel to his side. One of Andrew’s arms wraps around Nathaniel’s waist, and his other hand drags Nathaniel’s arm over his shoulder and holds onto his wrist. “We’re leaving,” Andrew says, staring at Nicky the longest before jerking his chin and taking a step forward. “Now.”

Andrew half-drags Nathaniel from the club. Not by Nathaniel’s choice, but his body won’t listen past basic commands, and even those take an excessive amount of time to respond. He can manage to stay on his feet so long as he leans on Andrew, and he can sort of lift his feet off the floor to take steps, but beyond that, it’s Andrew that gets him outside. By the time they reach the curb, Andrew is supporting almost all of Nathaniel’s weight. To his right, Kevin says something about _had too much to drink_ , but Nathaniel doesn’t want to move his head to see who he’s talking too, because he’s pretty sure he would throw up.

The car pulls up in front of them, and Nathaniel frowns as he’s dragged towards the rear passenger-side door. Nicky is behind the wheel, but Nathaniel doesn’t remember him leaving the group. Andrew and Aaron push and pull Nathaniel into the backseat, and then Nicky drives away and they leave Eden’s Twilight behind.

What could have been minutes or hours later, the car stops in a short driveway in front of a white two-story house. Despite the quaint, suburban appearance, Nathaniel’s warning bells go off. He’s too sluggish to respond to them. He doesn’t even try to fight it when Andrew drags him from the car and practically carries him across the porch and into the house. Nathaniel gets a moment to absorb the ground floor – a living room, a kitchen, a hallway – before Andrew pulls Nathaniel up the stairs and unceremoniously dumps him into a reclining chair in what looks like a game room.

“Stay there,” Andrew says, giving Nathaniel a pointed look before leaving. He doesn’t shut the door behind him.

Nathaniel sags, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. It’s an impersonal off-white – eggshell. He wonders if that’s going to be added to the list of colors that make him sick.

A shout makes its way upstairs to Nathaniel’s ear. He flinches when several other raised voices join in. There’s always a fight for who gets to go first. He wants to curl up and hide so that Riko can’t get him, but it’s not Riko downstairs. It’s Andrew, and Aaron, and Nicky, and Kevin, though the latter won’t participate. It’s worse. Nathaniel knew what he was getting into with Riko. He doesn’t know a thing about the men downstairs.

A brief, hard knock from the doorway makes Nathaniel jump and pulls him from his thoughts. He turns his head to the door, and the world spins with him. He groans and pinches his eyes shut. Aside from the pounding in his ears, the house is quiet. He hadn’t realized that the shouting had stopped.

“You’re not a druggy,” Andrew says. “That the drugs are hitting you this hard is proof of that.” Footsteps make their way into the room, and Nathaniel focuses on them. “I guess I’m not surprised, after our little run-in on the stairs, but I had to make sure.” Nathaniel opens his eyes enough to watch Andrew drag up a chair and sit down across from Nathaniel, so close that their knees are almost touching.

“Is that what all this was for?” Nathaniel asks, voice slurred but coherent. The car ride must have been longer than a few minutes, because thinking seems easier. “Seems an elaborate and expensive setup just to make sure I don’t shoot up on the weekends.”

“Aaron used to. More than just the weekends. I don’t need a fuckup like you dragging him back down that hole.”

Nathaniel grunts, closing his eyes again. Thinking may be clearer, but he still feels slow, foggy, dizzy.

“Why do you hate Kevin?” Andrew asks.

Judging by Andrew’s tone, this is the real reason that Nathaniel was dragged all the way out here tonight. This is the core of their problems. So he opens his eyes and tries to sit up straighter. He only succeeds at one of those, and Andrew’s eyes catch the failed movement. “Do you want the whole list or just the main points?”

“You’re going to pass out soon,” is Andrew’s way of telling Nathaniel to keep it short.

“He told me to stay,” Nathaniel says. “I wanted to leave, and Kevin told me to stay, and he told me to convince Jean to stay, too. He promised that it wasn’t so bad with Riko, that he would grow on us and we would start to like him. That we were all brothers, all part of the same family. Eventually things would smooth out.”

Nathaniel laughs through the drugs and the bitter taste rising at the back of his throat. It’s not funny, it’s _not_ , but he doesn’t want to start crying in front of Andrew. His next words come out so fast that they slur together as he trips over them. “You know about Kevin, right? That his mom died and Tetsuji took him in, raised Kevin and Riko together? They were brothers, actual brothers. Not equals, no, and Riko got angry at Kevin from time to time, sure. Let his bad side show a little. I heard Kevin had a hell of a time learning to write Japanese since he’s left handed. But Kevin never got beaten. He never had to practice with a concussion or a cracked rib. He was never tied down or dressed up and fed to the more sexual boys like Jean and I were. Kevin told me to stay, and then the fucking hypocrite went and left after his first taste of real pain.” Nathaniel is shaking, adrenaline fighting a war with the drug. He feels empty, like all of that bitterness and rage was his only substance, and now he has nothing left to fill it with.

Maybe he can convince Andrew to give it back, but his eyes are already heavier than he wants them to be. Andrew was right; Nathaniel is going to pass out soon.

“Next time just ask. You don’t have to drug me to get my mouth to work.” He’s not as accusing as he thinks he should be, but he’s too tired to try again.

“I’ll keep that option open,” Andrew says, standing up. He grabs a blanket from the loveseat and drops it on Nathaniel’s lap before walking out of the room. But he stops at the threshold, staring out into the dark hallway. In all of his dark clothing, Andrew looks smoky around the edges. “What about all of those scars under your newest bloody mess?”

Nathaniel grins, and it’s all teeth and bitterness, feral pain verging on mania. He doesn’t want to tell Andrew, so he says, “You’ll have to pay for those.” He knows that Andrew won’t be able to afford that information.

Andrew must know it too, because he turns off the light and leaves Nathaniel alone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I'm exhausted. I'm only halfway through chapter 16, but I got to a point that's about par with the length of the other chapters, so I paused to get this chapter up. I'll probably finish 16 tomorrow or something smh. But here's this anyway

When Nathaniel wakes up in the morning, it’s to a headache and jelly muscles that take a lot of convincing to cooperate. He sits up straight and a blanket falls off his shoulders to pool in his lap; he frowns at it, not remembering having covered himself up. There’s a pile of clothes on the coffee table to his left, with a sticky note on top that reads: _Drink some water and take a fucking shower_. Nathaniel scowls at the note and rips it off, but he picks up the folded cloths and leaves the room with them in his arms.

The upstairs level is made up of only two rooms. The game room that Nathaniel slept in is most of it; the rest is a wide hallway and the large master bedroom that it leads to. Nathaniel steps inside to find the room meticulous and impersonal. There’s a bed, a dresser, a vanity, and an armchair stuffed into the corner with a lamp. Off to one side is a walk-in closet, and on the other side is the bathroom.

He doesn’t realize how thirsty he is until he sticks his head under the tap and starts drinking. He drinks until his stomach hurts and his head stops spinning, and then he takes a long, hot shower. While he’s scrubbing the smell of alcohol off of his skin and out of his hair, he tries to remember every detail about last night and finds that he’s only fuzzy about everything that happened after Andrew dropped him off in the game room. He knows he answered some of Andrew’s questions, and he hopes this means that now he’ll be left alone.

There’s a towel hanging on a rod to the left of the shower, but it’s already damp when Nathaniel grabs it. However, not knowing where the rest of the towels are, or if there even _are_ other towels, he decides to just use this one. The clean clothes – like the clubbing clothes – fit him perfectly. He wishes he had bandages to cover up his stitches, but otherwise he decides that this is as good as it’s going to get. He doesn’t care about what happens now.

As soon as he’s eighteen, he’s leaving.

Nathaniel finds Aaron, Kevin, and Nicky downstairs in the kitchen, each with a steaming mug of coffee in their hands. Nathaniel settles his hand over his pockets, rechecking for his phone, credit card, and keys, and then he steps into the room. Nicky spots him first. He sets his mug down on the counter a little too hard and approaches Nathaniel too quickly. Nathaniel backs up to the edge of the room and Nicky stops in his tracks, wringing his hands in front of him. “I’m so sorry about last night,” Nicky says. “I wasn’t thinking, I shouldn’t have –”

“Nicky.” Andrew’s voice is a warning from the front door. Nicky winces and swallows and then turns away from Nathaniel and picks up his coffee mug. Nathaniel narrows his eyes and watches Andrew take off his shoes and walk into the kitchen with bags of fast food breakfast. Kevin makes a face at the greasy food, but he digs around in the paper bags anyway and pulls out a wrapped biscuit sandwich.

“I never asked you to defend me,” Nathaniel says to Andrew. He steps back into the kitchen, coming up to stand at the island. When Andrew meets his gaze, Nathaniel gestures with his chin towards Nicky, who turns his head away. Aaron moves around Andrew to stand beside his cousin. Kevin takes his sandwich and his coffee and leaves the kitchen.

Andrew reaches into a bag and pulls out some hash browns. “Who said I was defending you?” That too-wide smile has found its home once more on Andrew’s face, and Nathaniel isn’t sure if he’s happy about Andrew being medicated or not. Andrew is certainly more dangerous sober, but then again, the medication doesn’t do much more than slow down the process of Andrew’s emotions. He’s still dangerous, but with the drugs in his system, he’d laugh when he gutted you.

Andrew pushes one of the brown bags towards Nathaniel. The grease on the bottom of the bag makes it slide easier across the counter top. “I see you can follow directions well enough,” he says, pointedly looking at Nathaniel’s clothes and wet hair. “Eat. It’ll get the drugs out of your system before we reach Palmetto. I don’t need Wymack and Abby on my ass. You’re fine, right?” Andrew’s smile sets Nathaniel on edge.

Nathaniel side eyes Andrew for a moment before he reaches into the bag. His hand emerges holding a sausage-and-egg biscuit, warm and too greasy through the paper wrapper. It smells unhealthy, and Nathaniel cringes at the thought of not being able to run this off any time soon, but he methodically chews his way through all of it.

“Mugs are to the left of the sink,” Aaron says, maybe noticing the way Nathaniel’s swallows have become more difficult. “There’s still some coffee left in the pot.”

The coffee is bitter and only moderately warm, but Nathaniel drinks it down anyway.

They leave before ten, Andrew rounding up Kevin and leading them all out the door. Aaron locks up behind everyone, tests the door, and follows them down the porch steps to the car. Nathaniel’s eyes are elsewhere, watching Andrew, with keys in hand, angle towards the driver’s seat. “Nathaniel,” Andrew croons, opening his door and resting his forearm on the roof of the car. It seems to Nathaniel to be an uncomfortable attempt at looking intimidating, with his arm nearly level with his head. “You’re riding shotgun.”

Kevin pulls up short on his way to the passenger’s seat. “Andrew,” he says, though it sounds intimately more like whining to Nathaniel.

Andrew shoots Kevin a look that silences him. “I do not think it will kill you, Kevin Day, to ride in the backseat.”

Nathaniel waits for Kevin to move toward the backseat before he approaches the car. Andrew’s face is barely visible over the top of the car, but Nathaniel can see enough. Andrew’s pupils are not blown wide, and are rather constricted in the wash of light glinting down from just above the house. The bags under Andrew’s eyes are a deep purple. He’s still sober, or trying to be. Nathaniel wonders what Andrew took to make his hands so steady. “Tell me why,” Nathaniel says instead of asking. “You shoved me in the middle yesterday,” _and elbowed me in the gut_ , he doesn’t say, “so why do I get the front now?”

The flat stare that Andrew gives Nathaniel is oddly steadying. Not reassuring, and Nathaniel doesn’t feel any safer with that blank gaze on him than Andrew’s drug-induced smile, but this, at least, looks like the truth. “Do you want me to spell it out for you? I got what I needed and I’m done antagonizing you. For now.” Andrew ducks into his seat and starts the engine. “Get in the car, Nathaniel.”

Nathaniel gets in, shutting the door and pulling on his seatbelt as an afterthought. He worries about what exactly he told Andrew last night. There are some things he’s not ready to give up yet, or maybe ever, but he has to trust that, even drugged, he would hold onto those scraps of information with an iron fist.

Though Nathaniel didn’t think it was possible, Andrew is an even worse driver than Nicky. He peels out of the driveway and speeds down the road, passing cars as if they’re standing still. The shiny, expensive black car responds to his every whim, roaring as it accelerates, changing lanes with the smallest of touches. There is no fear of cops in Andrew’s body language, just the need to put as much space between him and the place he left. When the silence becomes suffocating – long before they hit the interstate – Andrew blasts the radio.

No idle chatter comes from the back of the car.

Nathaniel feels too small in the front seat. His skin is too tight. He wants to claw out of it. His shoulders hunch in, hands twisting in his lap. There’s a different kind of torture riding in the front seat, one that puts him on display and makes him feel examined. Part of him wishes that he was constricted in the backseat, but he’s also relieved to have his own space.

Two hours turn into a lifetime, and as soon as Andrew parks the car, Nathaniel bolts. The death of the engine’s purr follows him out the door. Andrew is significantly slower, and that’s the only reason Nathaniel doesn’t leave them behind in his desire to get back into a space he can at least sort of claim as his own. He stutters to a stop a few yards away, wanting to know what’s keeping Andrew – wanting to know what’s wrong with him.

“Kevin,” Andrew says, his voice strained. Since Nathaniel had been staring out of the window for the entire drive, he hadn’t noticed Andrew shaking in the driver’s seat. He notices now.

Kevin comes around the car and holds out a pill bottle. Andrew takes it, shakes a pill out onto his palm, and dry swallows it.

Nathaniel leaves.

He hears Andrew and his group come in the dorm behind him, but he doesn’t stop and wait for them, doesn’t want give a shit anymore. He spent his night in Columbia with them, and now he’s done. Nathaniel doesn’t even have to consider taking the elevator – he takes the stairs, slowly. By the time he reaches the third floor, Nicky is disappearing inside room 319 and closing the door behind him.

The door to Nathaniel’s suite is unlocked, so he quietly lets himself in. Matt and Jacob are both on the sofa, each with a controller in hand, eyes on the TV. The music from the game is loud enough to cover the sound of Nathaniel’s entrance, but he’s not at all sure how they can miss the motion of him walking in. Nathaniel closes the door and kicks off his shoes.

He’s over the threshold of the hallway when Matt’s shout of, “Nathaniel!” draws him back.

Matt is halfway to Nathaniel by the time Jacob finishes pausing the game. Nathaniel puts his hands in his pockets, curling his fingernails into his palms, and keeps an eye on Matt until he stops a comfortable distance away.

“Are you okay?” Matt asks. It’s not the way Jean would have asked, if he would have asked at all. Frequently, Jean didn’t have to. Jean would have been assessing the damage; Matt is simply concerned.

Nathaniel shrugs. “I’m fine.”

“’Fine’?” Jacob asks, coming up behind Matt and trapping Nathaniel in the hallway.

Nathaniel tenses and looks over his shoulder at the bathroom at the end of the hall, the bedroom, the impossibility of escaping from a third-floor window. He turns back to the two men in front of him and forces himself to calm down. Matt and Jacob are not dangerous, not to Nathaniel at least. Still, he can’t loosen his shoulders, and he can’t stop wishing that his phone was a knife. “Yeah, _fine_. Andrew and I had a nice long conversation,” which he doesn’t remember. “I handled it.”

Matt flounders for a moment, staring at Nathaniel with his mouth slightly open, eyes a little too wide.

Jacob’s eyes move clockwise from the points of Nathaniel’s shoulders to his hands shoved in his pockets. He claps Matt on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go relax, Nathaniel. Abby wants you taking it easy, right? If you want to come out around supper time, we’re planning on ordering in some pizza.”

Grateful for the excuse to leave, Nathaniel turns his back on them and recedes into the bedroom. He flicks his eyes at Matt’s bed and feels a ghost smile creep over his lips, but he only stays in the room long enough to grab a change of clothes. By the time he moves to the bathroom, Jacob and Matt have disappeared from the end of the hallway.

He already showered this morning, but he wants to shower again. He still feels like there’s alcohol on his skin, like other people’s sweat from when they bumped into him still clings to his arms, to his back. Nicky’s fingers still have a hard grip on his chin.

The scalding water is a welcome burn on his skin. Maybe he can boil last night away. It doesn’t feel good on his stitches – it feels fucking awful, in fact – but that’s inconsequential. All that matters is that it burns away any unwanted touches.

Nathaniel isn’t sure just how long he stands in the shower, scrubbing at his skin until he’s raw, but when he steps out his fingers have shriveled into prunes. He stares at them for a long time, mind blanking out completely as he takes advantage of the rare gift of time to decompress and compartmentalize. He doesn’t want to think about last night anymore, so he shoves those thoughts into a chest and slams the lid.

Three days ago, per Abby’s orders, Nathaniel stashed boxes of white bandages and disinfectant into the cupboard under the sink. He digs them out now. It’s been a long time since Nathaniel has treated his own wounds. He and Jean often got hurt together, but they still patched each other up afterwards. There was only one time when they couldn’t, when Jean “earned” an extra blow to the head and Nathaniel had to take care of them both.

The pain is familiar, the sting of the disinfectant, the pressure of his teeth against his knuckles when he chokes down the urge to cry out. Nathaniel doesn’t rush the process. He takes his time, knowing the necessity of keeping the wounds clean so they can stitch back together. They’re nearly healed. Some of the smaller ones could lose their stitches now, Nathaniel thinks, but that’s a problem for tomorrow, when he trusts himself more with a pair of scissors.

Sometimes his skin is too constricting.

Tomorrow, he’ll take the bandages off for good, let the wounds air out. Today, he needs them to hold him together.

He puts on his clothes and throws away the set Andrew gave him. He would burn them, but he doesn’t want the fire alarms to go off.

His bed is oh, so tempting, but after staring at it for a minute, Nathaniel realizes that he doesn’t want to be alone.

Matt and Jacob are sitting on the sofa again, already back in their game. They’re quieter now, so Nathaniel’s voice carries when he says, “You found your green pillowcase.”

“Yeah,” Matt says absently, pausing the game before turning to face Nathaniel. It’s too familiar a look for a man who has only known Nathaniel for two weeks. “It was in between the cushions on the sofa. Guessing Dan hid it there.”

“She knows how particular Matt is about his green sheets.” Jacob smirks like he’s in on a joke. “She likes to get him riled up.”

Nathaniel sinks into the armchair, folding his legs underneath him. It’s an awkward position that makes some of his stitches dig uncomfortably into his skin, but he knows the value of being able to sit down like this, without fear driving him to be ready to run at any moment.

Matt gestures abruptly with his arm at chest level. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” Jacob’s smirk widens into a smile.

“They’re good sheets!” Matt says instead of answering. “ _So_ fucking comfortable. I swear, I’ve never slept on better sheets.”

Jacob scoffs, flicking his hand in the air, waving away the absurd idea. “They’re just sheets, Matthew.”

Apparently, Dan isn’t the only one who enjoys getting Matt worked up.

“They’re _amazing_ sheets!”

Raphael and James join them an hour later with three pizzas, well after Matt and Jacob have picked up where they left off in their game. Unexpectedly, the girls stop by later, Seth on Allison’s arm. With everyone else sandwiched into the room, Nathaniel is able to ignore Seth for the rest of the night.

He doubts that this momentary truce will last.

Nathaniel curls up in bed that night holding his phone to his face. The screen is on with the brightness down low. A blank conversation stares back at him, cursor blinking in the message box. He plays words over and over in his head, trying different wordings, different languages, different inflections. He types the message slowly, and he feels the weight of each character. Jean has to know it’s from him, though. Nathaniel has to give something up for that, something that only Jean knows.

_I’m alive. Delete this before he sees. –Neil_


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorites!!!!! I think after this I'm going to spend some time re-reading, figure out how far Nathaniel has progressed and see where I need to take everything from here. I just finished chapter 17, and there's going to be a pretty large time skip coming up, and I want to make sure I'm ready for it.
> 
> If you're also reading Eyes Half Closed, I've hit a lull with that, but I've hit a lull with everything, so don't be worried. I've just been really focused on getting chapter 17 done and getting this current one posted, so I might go back to EHC pretty soon.

Nathaniel doesn’t get a responding text from Jean until Thursday, and he wakes up to his phone alerting the message at barely gone four in the morning.

It simply reads: _Fils de pute._

Despite his exhaustion, Nathaniel smirks and almost texts back. He wants to tell Jean not to insult his mother like that. It’s such a typical response from Jean that Nathaniel is tempted to respond in kind. That achingly familiar feeling is dangerous, though, and he needs to bury it along with the exchange.

 Nathaniel deletes the conversation. He can’t afford to leave the evidence on his phone.

Jacob stirs in the bunk above him. The striker has proven to be a seriously light sleeper, almost as light as Nathaniel. This sort of habit doesn’t happen without reason, and Nathaniel wonders what happened in Jacob’s past to make him like this. Chewing on that thought, Nathaniel tucks his phone under his pillow and falls back asleep.

He wakes up to silence and an empty room. A shudder wracks his body, a remnant of a nightmare, of the cold water still clinging to his subconscious, still dripping into his lungs. He closes his eyes, gets a grip, takes a breath, and then rolls out of bed. It’s nine. Jacob and Matt are gone to class, but Matt will be back in a half hour. Nathaniel has already memorized his temporary roommates’ comings and goings. So far, he hasn’t been left alone for more than two hours at a time, and he’s grateful for that.

He’s almost halfway to his goal, halfway to being able to leave. Nathaniel has been a guest of the Foxes for three and a half weeks, and while it’s been… Nathaniel wouldn’t call it _fun_ , but it’s been an experience, to say the least. But he’s ready to leave. This isn’t his home, and it won’t ever be. There is no niche for him to fit into here, and he aches for a place to belong. If Evermore was nothing else, it was a place where he knew exactly who he was and how he fit in.

After grabbing a change of clothes, Nathaniel locks himself in the bathroom and takes a hot shower to erase the last trickles of his nightmare from his mind. Nathaniel is half-dressed in his sweatpants when his eyes snag on his obscured form in the bathroom mirror. He uses his bunched up shirt to wipe away the steam, and he meets his own stare head-on. Sometimes his eyes are safer than the scars on his body, sometimes they aren’t.

Nathaniel turns his attention to his body. The bruises that ringed his neck are just memories now; the ugly yellow that they dissolved into had faded away a few days ago. On his shoulders are old scars – the ugly hooked line and the half-iron imprint – and two new ones from Riko. Nathaniel grabs the scissors from the first-aid kit. The new scars are pink, puckered, and tender. One is long and shallow, the other is round and deep. They’re both healed enough. He cuts them free of their stitches.

Down further are more cuts, more stitches. Some wounds Nathaniel cuts loose, some of them he leaves. He knows that the deeper ones on his torso aren’t healed yet, but he’s sick of the stitches and needs to rid himself of what he can.

He feels lighter with most of the stitches out, less constricted when he stretches. He opts out of wearing his shirt and returns briefly to the bedroom to drop it off on his bed and grab his phone. He comes up short on the threshold.

Andrew is standing at the foot of Nathaniel’s bed, casually leaning back against the frame with his ankles crossed and his nose buried in his phone. He lifts a finger in silent command for Nathaniel to wait a moment while Andrew finishes whatever he’s doing. Nathaniel isn’t about to spare him that courtesy. “Do you have a habit of breaking into other peoples’ rooms?” he asks, pushing himself into the room and around Andrew. “Why are you here? Don’t you have a coward to protect?” Though, as he says the words, he remembers overhearing yesterday that Kevin is seeing a physical therapist – his cast came off on Monday.

Nathaniel drops his shirt on his bed and reaches for his phone. He comes up empty and frowns down at the space where he left the device.

“And here I thought you were good at following directions,” Andrew says. Nathaniel looks up in time to see Andrew give him a bland look as he pockets his phone. Nathaniel stares at the outline of the device in his pocket for a moment before he rolls his eyes and makes an annoyed noise.

“I’m not Kevin,” Nathaniel responds, leaving the room for the kitchenette in search of something to eat.

Andrew laughs, following a step behind Nathaniel. “Oh, no, I’ll never make that mistake. You and Kevin are not the same person at all.” Neil pulls open the refrigerator and Andrew pulls himself up to sit on the counter. “Maybe that’s why I find you so interesting.”

Nathaniel tenses, bowl of sliced fruit in his hands. _Interesting_ is not at all a word he wants to be called, least of all by Andrew. “Oh?” is all he says, taking the fruit from the fridge and closing the refrigerator – maybe a bit too hard, because some of the bottles in the door rattle against one another. This is the first time he and Andrew have been alone together since Columbia, and unease churns Nathaniel’s stomach.

“Stop panicking, victim,” Andrew says, pulling out his phone when it buzzes in his pocket. He checks the screen, eyes dragging over what must be a text message, before pocketing it again. Nathaniel studies the outline of the phone and looks to Andrew’s other pocket; his gaze narrows. Andrew doesn’t let him think about it for too long. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”

Nathaniel’s response is instant. “Going to drug me again?” He can’t help the bitterness in his tone and the sharp edge of his tongue. He pops a piece of fruit in his mouth to try and keep a lid on his temper. He doesn’t want to fuck with Andrew, not when he’s high, not when his motives are still so unclear.

Andrew flicks his fingers. “You said I didn’t have to drug you to make your mouth work. I do hope you weren’t lying to me.” Nathaniel cocks his head and says nothing. If there’s a point behind this conversation, he wants Andrew to get there, and get there fast. Andrew flashes a wicked grin, one that is more amused than the situation calls for. “Truth for a truth, hm? Quid pro quo. You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll tell you something you want to know. Back and forth until I say it’s over.”

Nathaniel shoves another piece of fruit in his mouth. It’s a little overripe, but not to the point of being gross yet. He chews slowly, giving himself time to think about what Andrew is proposing. He’s not shy about his past. He can always build up his wall against the more painful memories, and he can always deny answering certain questions if Andrew gets too close to a touchy subject. “Alright, what are the rules?”

“There aren’t any.”

“Fine. Who goes first?”

That terrible smile finds its way back on Andrew’s face. His feet, where they hang off the edge of the counter, kick against the lower cupboards. The childish movement somehow makes Andrew’s amusement all the more deadly. “I do, idiot.” Nathaniel moves across the kitchen to lean against the opposite counter, and Andrew’s narrowed eyes follow him. “What’s between you and Kevin?”

“This again?” Nathaniel chews on more fruit, hoping to get his twisting stomach to settle. He still doesn’t remember very much from his night in Columbia, but he remembers Andrew asking him a similar question. “Why do you care? He’s straight, so you’re not going to get anywhere with him.”

“Just answer the question, fuckhead.” Andrew’s spine stiffens and his shoulders go tense, but only for a few seconds before the drugs evaporate that anger and replace it with a giddy smile.

Nathaniel’s mouth twists bitterly when he says, “There’s nothing between us now but abandonment and misdeeds.”

Andrew laughs, head tipped back, hands gripped tight to the edge of the counter. It’s just as insane as the last time Nathaniel heard him laugh. “Without the dramatics, this time.”

Frustrated, Nathaniel flings his hand in the air and pushes away from the counter. “I don’t know.” There are so many _implications_ behind Andrew’s tone, and Nathaniel is immediately set on edge. He paces a step, twists a hand in his hair, and sets the bowl of fruit down a bit roughly, but it’s better than throwing it across the room. “When we were younger, we were basically brothers – the two of us and Riko. We were a group of three. We were really close. And then Jean came when I was twelve, and then it was suddenly Riko and Kevin, and Jean and me. Riko didn’t want to share his inner group with Jean, despite branding him as part of his perfect court. Kevin and I were still close, but not the way we used to be. It was different. I was with Jean all the time, and Kevin was with Riko all the time. We were only all together when we were on the court. And then….”

Nathaniel stares over the half wall into the living room. He doesn’t like exposing his back to Andrew, but he doesn’t want Andrew to be able to read his expression, either. Nathaniel still has conflicted feelings about speaking to Andrew. His tyranny over his small group makes Nathaniel think of Riko, but there’s something about Andrew that is nothing at all like that bastard. Nathaniel suspects that the line is drawn by the few glimpses Nathaniel has seen of Andrew sober. Andrew’s manic smile might make Nathaniel’s skin crawl, but there’s something about Andrew’s sober apathy that allows Nathaniel the small amount of trust to turn his back.

“And then what?” Andrew pushes.

“And then the bastard ran away, didn’t he?” Nathaniel snaps. “He came and saw me that night, found me in the equipment room cleaning my racquet. He just said he was sorry, that he was ‘really, really sorry.’” Nathaniel can feel his acidic tone eating through his tongue. He doesn’t care. “Riko knew – he always knew – that I was the last person to see Kevin. He almost broke my arm. Tetsuji stopped him, though I didn’t know why at the time. In the days that followed, I honestly wished that he would have just done it, or killed me instead.” Nathaniel shakes the last of his anger from his fingers and heaves a sigh, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

The silence that falls over them is peaceful and unrushed. Andrew’s presence is undeniable, but Nathaniel doesn’t feel aggravated by it, even with his back exposed. If Andrew had wanted to do anything to him, it would have been done in Columbia. His trust for the goalkeeper stops there, but Nathaniel is certain that Andrew isn’t going to rape him.

“So you weren’t lying,” Andrew says, just as the silence is getting to be a bit much for Nathaniel.

Hm, Nathaniel had been correct, then, in assuming that he and Andrew have discussed this already. “Why the fuck would I lie?”

“Well excuse the fuck out of me for not immediately assuming that you’re a fucking saint.”

Nathaniel opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling for a moment. He itches to get into a verbal fight with Andrew, but for the moment, he won’t let that part of himself get the better of the situation. Oddly enough, he doesn’t want to fight Andrew. “Why do you come off your medication when you play? Why take that risk, given the consequences of your probation?”

Andrew laughs, and the sound is enough to get Nathaniel to turn back around. He finds Andrew wagging a finger in his direction. “Oh, Nathaniel. You’re very entertaining. I didn’t think you would have noticed, what with you having a panic attack before the first quarter was over.” Nathaniel stiffens, and Andrew braces his hands on the counter and leans forward. The entirety of the kitchen is between them, but Nathaniel still takes the step back that presses his spine into the counter.

“Tell me, Nathaniel,” Andrew says. He jumps down from the counter and stalks closer. “Do you know what it’s like to be happy all the time? Even when I’m red-hot raging, my body betrays me, the drugs bringing me up, up, up, higher than the fucking clouds.” He laughs, pausing a little more than arm’s reach away. “I don’t give a shit about Exy. But if that’s the only chance I have to get off of my medication for a while, then I’m going to fucking take it. Coach allows it because his defense is weak and because when I’m off the drugs, all I know how to do is defend my psychotic ass, and if that means smacking balls away from the goal, so be it.”

Nathaniel closes the distance between them down to a foot, and Andrew affects a look of surprise. “I don’t believe you’re psychotic. And neither do you.” There’s an accusation behind his tone, and Nathaniel wonders why he bothers, why he cares. Andrew obviously doesn’t.

Andrew tips his head in a conceding way. “Too bad it doesn’t matter what you and I think, hm? I can’t get off this prescription for another year, so I guess we’re both going to have to deal with that.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nathaniel mutters. In just a little over a month, he’s going to be gone. He’ll never see Andrew again, regardless of how long he survives once he leaves the Foxhole Court.

The lack of space between Andrew and Nathaniel hums with tension as they stare each other down. Nathaniel finds that he doesn’t mind Andrew so close to him. It’s not comfortable, and it’s not something that he feels like he’s going to seek out going forward in time, but the prospect of Andrew standing so close to him doesn’t make his skin crawl.

“What are you afraid of?” Andrew asks, and just like that the contentment is shattered.

Nathaniel shuts down. “No.”

But Andrew isn’t having that. “You don’t get to say no, not to this. It’s my turn to ask, and that means it’s your turn to answer. You can’t duck out because it’s getting too personal.”

“Oh, go shove a cactus up your ass,” Nathaniel nearly shouts, gesturing wildly with his right arm. Andrew doesn’t flinch. “The last person who learned my fears used them against me. I am not handing over that control. Not ever again.”

Andrew is silent for a few beats before he says, “Riko.”

Nathaniel doesn’t mean to shiver, definitely doesn’t mean to flinch, but he does, and there’s no hoping that Andrew didn’t see.

“Don’t go roping me in with that pretentious fuck,” Andrew says, and though the words are venomous, he laughs cheerfully afterwards. “Don’t you trust me, Nathaniel?” When Nathaniel says nothing, Andrew pokes his ribs. “Why don’t you trust me?”

There’s a whole long list of reasons why Nathaniel can’t trust Andrew, starting with his close association to Kevin and leading all the way up to Andrew showing up unannounced in the suite. But Nathaniel doesn’t list any of that. He just glances at Andrew’s left arm.

Andrew makes an amused noise that instantly has Nathaniel clenching his fists. “So knives is at least on the list, then. Dear Nathaniel, why are you afraid of knives?”

This is not a conversation Nathaniel wants to have, not even a little bit. But the damage is done. A single glance spoke the words he didn’t want to say, and because of that he’s in this situation. Well, he’s never been one to half-ass anything. “The Butcher of Baltimore,” he says as an answer. He knows it won’t end there, but he waits the few seconds it takes for the recognition of the name to settle into Andrew’s expression. “He’s my father. He…” Nathaniel heaves a weary breath and moves away from Andrew. He needs the space to think, to move past the sting of old wounds. He touches the knife at his hip just to reassure himself that it’s there. “One of his, uh, subordinates taught me how to use knives, and she wasn’t shy about cutting me up in order to teach me how to defend myself. When deals fell through, my father wasn’t shy about taking it out on me, when I was in my room and couldn’t get away.”

“Did he –”

“No,” Nathaniel says, because he knows where that question is going, because he set it up to see how Andrew would react. “No, that was all at the Nest.” Nathaniel snorts, shaking his head slowly. “Riko, twisted fucker that he is, _loved_ to use knives on me. Not Jean, because Jean isn’t afraid of knives. But Riko knows what all of his Ravens fear. He bought a set of knives just for me.” The only tension in his body is in his clenched hands. “Despite all that shit, I’m still more terrified of my father than I will ever be of Riko.”

“Parents are supposed to protect their children,” Andrew says. Nathaniel counts that response as a win and stores the rare show of true emotion away.

Nathaniel picks up the bowl of fruit and replaces it in the fridge. He feels Andrew following his movement. The ball is in his court now, and Andrew hasn’t said to stop yet. Nathaniel just needs a moment to think of what to ask. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and cracks it open as he backs away.

“Such terrible manners,” Andrew says.

“You’re not my guest,” Nathaniel responds, just as flippantly. Without ever taking his eyes off Andrew, he raises the bottle of water to his lips and takes a few swallows. A question comes to mind as he lowers the bottle and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Why are you so protective of Kevin?”

Andrew flicks his fingers. “Because he made a deal with me. I protect him from Riko and Kevin gives me something to build my life around when I graduate.”

“But you don’t care about Exy. Why did you take that bet?”

“Because he was desperate and I was curious.”

Nathaniel waits to see if Andrew will elaborate, but he doesn’t, and it’s not Nathaniel’s turn to keep pressing for information. He doesn’t have that leverage right now. They’re even.

Andrew turns to leave. “We’ll pick this up another day,” he says.

“Andrew.” The blond turns back, eyebrows raised. “Give me my phone back.” Nathaniel looks pointedly at Andrew’s right front pocket, the distinct shape of the phone against the black denim.

With a laugh, Andrew fishes the phone out and tosses it to Nathaniel. “I’m going to solve you yet,” he says, and this time when he turns around with a two-finger salute, Nathaniel lets him leave.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god it's been so long I'm so sorry
> 
> here's a preemptively posted chapter 13. I'm not done with chapter 18 yet but I know what I want from it, so I figure it's safe to put this up

On Friday, the Foxes have an out of state game that Nathaniel opts out of attending. He wakes up at seven to find Matt and Jacob already gone. He checks his wounds in the bathroom, poking at the remaining stitches. The cuts and gauges and scrapes don’t hurt anymore, at least not worse than an abrasion or a small papercut. He takes the last of the stitches off and, realizing fully that he has the whole suite to himself, Nathaniel decides that today would be a good day for homework.

He’s antsy by ten o’clock, and not even advanced algebra can distract him. He paces, and then he stretches to see how much elasticity he’s lost in the weeks he’s been out of commission. He eats something small and does more homework. Around noon, something painful and gnawing settles in his stomach and permeates into his entire being. His hands start shaking, and he feels slightly nauseous. He plays with his phone, scrolling through his contacts over and over, staring at the empty message screen. When that doesn’t help, he goes for a run. He showers, he combs his hair, rechecks the angriest of his wounds. He knows he should eat but he can’t. He just sits in the armchair, folded up on himself, and stares at the far wall.

Matt and Jacob crash into the room a little after eleven, shouting and cheering and sweeping Nathaniel along in their postgame partying. They migrate to the girls’ room because Nathaniel doesn’t have an excuse not to. Bottles of alcohol are passed out, and Nathaniel is quick to notice the absence of Andrew and the rest of his group. Once everyone has a few shots in them, Nathaniel finally learns what’s going on. He learns that the Foxes pulled their shit together in the second half and won by two points. He learns that Kevin got an invitation to appear on Kathy Ferdinand’s sports show tomorrow morning. And he learns that the sick feeling he’d had in his gut all day was loneliness.

So, on Saturday at the ass crack of day and after only about an hour’s worth of sleep, Nathaniel trudges from the dorm with Jacob and Matt and piles onto the white-and-orange team bus with the rest of the Foxes. He ignores the odd look Wymack gives him and Kevin’s urgent, “What the hell are you doing?” in favor of choosing a seat somewhere in the middle of the bus and promptly falling back asleep.

Nathaniel wakes up when the creaking bus comes to a grinding jarring halt. He pushes himself into a sitting position, his arms peeling from the dark orange vinyl seat. After a few slow blinks to clear his head and reaffirm that his body is still in one piece, Nathaniel looks out of the window, wanting to know where they are. The sun isn’t up yet, but the space around the bus is bathed in artificial light, well-lit for the security cameras. Aside from the bus, the gas station is empty.

Around him, the Foxes begin stirring. Nathaniel watches Wymack get off the bus, Abby and Renee following shortly. Dan sits up from where she fell asleep against Matt and stretches her arms above her head. Her dangerously short hair sticks up in odd angles when she runs her hand through it. Nathaniel pulls out his phone to check the time and figures that they’re just on the outskirts of Raleigh.

Abby and Renee return with coffee before Wymack finishes topping off the tank, and while Renee passes out cups to the upper classmen in exchange for muffled thank yous, Abby heads towards the back of the bus.

“Thanks,” Nathaniel says softly as she passes a white paper cup off to him. He twists in his seat to watch her progress towards the very rear, where Andrew and Kevin are still heavily asleep. Aaron and Nicky, who had been sitting respectively two and three seats in front of Andrew, take their cups with vague mumbles and then leave their seats for the front of the bus. Nathaniel silently watches them go, vaguely wondering at their readiness to abandon ship when it means dealing with Andrew’s reaction to waking, but his train of thought comes to a halt when he turns back around and notices Abby’s hesitation in getting near Andrew and Kevin.

It’s not his place. Nathaniel considers letting it go, letting the two of them stay passed out until they reach Kathy’s. Nathaniel shouldn’t help. He should be eager to let this play out. It would be more than a little amusing to watch Kevin flounder as he warred between his bitchy morning person tendencies and his PR training if he woke up only to find them already at the studio. But he can see in the set of Abby’s body that even though she doesn’t want to touch them, she will. Nathaniel knows from living with her that she won’t be able to come up with an easy solution for waking them. Regardless of what he _should_ do, Nathaniel really doesn’t want to see what Andrew’s fist could do to Abby’s skin.

Nathaniel gets to his feet, sighing all the way. “I’ve got it,” he says, handing his coffee back to Abby.

“Kevin’s not –” Abby begins to warn.

“I know.”

“And Andrew –”

Nathaniel remembers all too well the elbow that slammed into his gut on the drive to Columbia. “I know that, too.”

Waking up Kevin is the easy part, despite the fact that he’s the worst morning person in the world. Nathaniel lived with him long enough to know exactly how to get him moving. He slaps the back of Kevin’s head and, over the top of the groan that Kevin gives, Nathaniel says in sharp, low Japanese, “Wake the fuck up, asshole, or you’re going to miss practice.” Predictably, Kevin jerks awake, his head whipping around in confusion and his eyes wide with fear. Nathaniel gets satisfaction from that fear. Vindication swirls through his body from putting Kevin in such a position, and from having the control in his hands with what to do with the situation. Kevin’s eyes find Nathaniel’s, focus on the tattooed three on Nathaniel’s cheek, and the ex-striker is immediately on his feet, the illusion that they’re still in the Nest strengthened. Nathaniel gives one slow blink before he says, “Calm down.” He’s still speaking Japanese, giving Kevin’s brain a moment to catch up. “We’re a half hour away from Kathy Ferdinand’s studio. Drink some coffee and walk a couple laps and you’ll be fine.”

Nathaniel watches raptly as the illusion of danger collapses on Kevin’s face until it turns into a glower.

“For fuck’s sake, Nathaniel.”

A grin spreads itself across Nathaniel’s face before he can stop it. “Glad to see you’re still a morning person. Some things never change.”

“Fuck you.”

“There he is,” Nathaniel says, and he can feel as his smile morphs into a show of teeth that is feral and unfriendly – his father’s smile. He steps around Kevin’s seat and gestures to Abby, who placidly holds out a paper cup while blinking owlishly at Nathaniel. Nathaniel scoffs; he’s not a miracle worker. “March,” he snaps at Kevin, switching back to English and shoving Kevin’s back to make sure he starts moving. He clenches his fist as soon as it’s retracted from Kevin, but he doesn’t like the lingering heat pressing into his palm, so he splays his fingers instead and shakes out his hand.

With Kevin taken care of, Nathaniel turns his attention to a still-sleeping Andrew. The fading bruise on Nathaniel’s sternum brings back how quickly Andrew can strike when he wakes up, and Nathaniel decides immediately that he doesn’t want to be within arm’s reach. So he opts for something safer than touching Andrew; he tosses his phone at Andrew’s chest.

Andrew comes awake like an unleashed storm, quick and efficient violence in his actions and anger in his eyes. Nathaniel’s phone clatters to the floor, disappearing under the seat. He watches it go and then flicks his gaze back to Andrew, who has already smoothed out his expression, but he still looks vaguely disoriented. Nathaniel waits, patiently and silently, his body perfectly still, for those hazel eyes to settle on him. Then he holds out his hand expectantly.

Andrew gives a dismissive glance to Nathaniel’s hand, but he leans down and picks up the phone anyway. He glances at the screen, brushing his thumb over it to clear off a bit of dirt before he turns an amused smile to Nathaniel. “Look at you. Tossing your possessions at me. Careful, someone might start assuming things.”

Nathaniel tilts his head at the vague accusation, not sure quite what to make of it. “You already stole it from me once.”

Andrew hums and nods, looking past Nathaniel and ignoring his proffered hand. “Oh, and I see you got Kevin awake already. A miracle.”

“Fuck off, Andrew,” Kevin says from the front of the bus, just as he’s pivoting to begin his return. Raphael snickers when Kevin passes him.

Nathaniel reaches out to Abby and takes Andrew’s coffee from her. He can smell the sugar as he holds it out to Andrew, who takes it and offers up Nathaniel’s phone as payment. But he doesn’t let go when Nathaniel’s fingers close around the device.

“You should be careful, Nathaniel,” Andrew says, eyes intent as he pulls Nathaniel closer by their grips on the phone, “where you throw this. Never know when you might need to call for help.”

Other than narrowing his eyes, Nathaniel keeps himself in check. He doesn’t like the close proximity, but he’s not going to back down from a fight, not now that he’s finally started discovering what it is to revolt and to own his body and his actions. “That sounds like a threat.”

Andrew grins, and the expression is both amused and off-putting. “It does, doesn’t it?” he says, neither admitting nor denying what both of them know as the truth. A pregnant pause stretches between them, during which Kevin makes it back to Abby and then pivots to begin lap number three, and the door opens and the bus dips down with the re-admittance of Wymack.

From behind Nathaniel, Aaron says a sentence or two in German, something that Nathaniel picks a few words out of, but not enough for it to make sense to him. Most of the words are too colloquial for him to have a grasp on. But Andrew understands. His eyes flash for a brief moment and his smile falls. Just a taste of the deeply-buried anger that Andrew holds comes out in those few seconds, but it’s enough of a taste that Nathaniel finds himself weary of the goalkeeper once more. Andrew releases the phone.

“Kevin,” Andrew says, and he flicks his hand at Nathaniel, shooing him away as he sags back in his seat.

Glad to be released, Nathaniel retreats, taking his coffee from Abby and thanking her again on his way back to his seat. Abby stares at him a moment too long before she returns to the front of the bus and the seat behind Wymack. Kevin walks past Nathaniel and tosses Andrew his bottle of pills before sliding into his own seat.

The bus comes to life with a mild metallic rumble. Knowing that it’s going to be a long day, and suddenly unsure if tagging along has proven to be better than staying by himself, Nathaniel zones out with his head against the window as the bus hits the highway.

Kathy Ferdinand is waiting for them in the large fenced-in parking lot when Wymack swings the bus into a reserved space and shuts off the engine. The coach looks over his shoulder at everyone, and Nathaniel can see his jaw working even from halfway to the back of the bus, and he braces himself for a long-winded speech about responsibility. But all Wymack says is a quick, “Behave,” and then he pops open the door and steps outside.

The rest of the Foxes file out from front seat to back. Abby, then Matt and Dan, Seth and Allison, Renee. Nicky and Aaron never did return to the rear of the bus after the quick stop at the gas station. Nathaniel doesn’t follow the pattern, letting Kevin and Andrew pass him before he stands and follows them out. Now that he’s here, now that there’s coffee in him and he’s thinking a little more clearly than he was when he shuffled out of the suite behind Matt at one in the morning, his stomach is a queasy mess of nerves.

He hadn’t been thinking when he boarded the bus in the middle of the night. He should have listened to the panic in Kevin’s voice, but by now Nathaniel is so used to that shaky tone that it’s easy to ignore. Hopefully he learns from his mistake this time.

Fucking loneliness. _Loneliness_. Of all fucking things, the emotion that has gotten Nathaniel to this point, potentially staring Death herself in the face, is _motherfucking_ loneliness. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but really, Nathaniel should have seen this coming and prepared for it. He’s never been alone, not for more than a few hours, since he turned ten. Before that, he’d only really been alone when he went to sleep. Seventeen years – almost eighteen – is a long time to not understand what, exactly, it is to be lonely.

But Nathaniel knows that it’s gotten him into this mess, and that brings a dislike for the emotion like bile in the back of his throat.

He all but hides behind Kevin and Andrew when he steps off of the bus, and it takes years of practice to school his expression into something smooth when Wymack closes the bus door and seals off the easiest escape route. Nathaniel doesn’t want Kathy to see him. She wouldn’t recognize him as Nathaniel Wesninski, no, but she isn’t stupid. At least, not as stupid as the outcasts around him. Kathy would see the tattoo on his cheek, and with Kevin standing in the same group of people, less than five feet away, she would be able to put the two pieces of that ugly puzzle together. So he ducks his head and steps closer to Matt, trying his best to stay out of Kathy’s field of vision.

“Kevin Day,” Kathy says, loud and cheerful and with a broad smile. She shakes his hand, and even Nathaniel can see that she’s got a firm grip, confident. He has no doubt that she’s used to getting what she wants with that grip. “It’s been too long.”

Kevin has his PR smile on full-force. It changes his whole face. This is the Kevin that the world knows and loves. Nathaniel wishes that, just once, they could see the Kevin that all of the Foxes hate. “It really has, I know,” Kevin says, shaking his head and smirking at Kathy as if he’s in on some years-old joke between them. “But I’ve been busy,” he says, glancing at the Foxes grouped loosely behind him and gesturing at them with a brief wave of his hand.

Kathy isn’t here for the Foxes, but she smiles and politely follows Kevin’s gesture with her gaze. “Yes, I can just about imagine.” Her eyes track each face, and Nathaniel does _not_ flinch when she maps out his face, but in the same breath that Kathy seems to dismiss him, she zeroes back in on him. Nathaniel can feel her gaze burn into him like a brand over his tattoo.

 _Fuck_.

So much for hiding.

“Kevin?” Kathy’s voice is too sweet. “Who’s this?” She knows. Or at least, she knows about the concept of Nathaniel, about the mysteriously invisible number three player for Riko’s perfect court. Nathaniel wants to get away, get back on the bus, run all the way back to Palmetto on just his two feet if he has to. He wants Kathy’s hungry eyes and devouring smile off of him.

“Oh, that’s…” Kevin meets Nathaniel’s gaze, and when Nathaniel risks a glance at him, he finds an apology buried deep, _deep_ in those clover green eyes, right behind an accusation of _I told you so_. “That’s Nathaniel.”

Kathy’s prim red lips close and her gaze narrows. When she takes a step forward, it’s a sultry saunter. Despite her age, Nathaniel imagines that most men probably find her attractive. “You know, Nathaniel,” Kathy’s voice is a purr, and in the moment she’s too much like Lola for Nathaniel to repress his horrified shiver, “I’ve imagined being introduced to you several times, but I never thought in my wildest dreams that we’d meet like this.” Nathaniel’s pulse kicks up several notches, to the point where it’s just about the only thing he can hear. “The mysterious number three. How would you like to be a guest on my show? I can sit you down right next to Kevin.”

“No,” Nathaniel says. His exhausted, one a.m. self didn’t know the difference between a day of suffering and tagging along today, but Nathaniel is now perfectly clear on the fact that to go on Kathy’s show is to sign his death certificate.

But Kathy doesn’t understand that. And she probably wouldn’t care anyway. “Come now, Nathaniel, let’s not be like that. You’ll have to do an interview at some point, anyway. Best to do it now, with Kevin by your side, than all alone on a huge stage.” The way Kathy moves her lips and works her vocal cords is polite, but Nathaniel knows a threat when he hears one.

“He said no,” Dan says, moving around Matt to angle herself a bit in front of Nathaniel. “Stop trying to pressure him. He’s not even eighteen yet.”

Nathaniel’s heart stops and stutters back to life, and all he can do is blink stupidly at Dan’s back. What is she doing?

Kathy’s polite professionalism never slips, but she scoffs, and it’s almost a dainty sound with how much force she has to put into keeping it from sounding derisive. “Kevin and Riko have been in the spotlight since long before they were eighteen.” For a second, when Kathy’s eyes meet Nathaniel’s, she looks starved, as if being the first person to get the scoop on interesting news is the only thing that sustains her. If that’s the case, then Nathaniel is a feast. “It’s a pity those two kept you in the shadows so long,” she flicks a disapproving frown on Kevin that Nathaniel assumes is supposed to be humorous. But her attention doesn’t shift from Nathaniel for long. “You’re absolutely gorgeous. No one could ever forget eyes like that.”

In front of Nathaniel, Dan braces as if ready for a fight. Matt shifts, ready to back her up. But neither of them get the chance.

“Kathy?” Andrew’s voice is dangerous despite how cheerful he sounds. Of course the drugs have filtered into his system by now, whisking away that pit of anger that everyone thinks needs to be controlled. “Nathaniel said no. Back off.” The goalkeeper doesn’t move from his position beside and a little behind Kevin, but his words are more of a barrier than Dan’s whole body.

From behind Nathaniel, Wymack finally clears his throat. “I’m technically not his guardian, Kathy, but we agreed that _Kevin_ should come on your show. Nathaniel was not part of that discussion, and he still isn’t. We can all turn around and leave right now, since there isn’t a contract keeping us here. Or you can stop harassing the kid.”

Kathy’s smile finally slips. “Fine,” she says, lips pursing and frown lines decorating her brow like tinsel, but the pout only lasts for a moment. She turns back to Kevin, taking with her an immense amount of pressure on Nathaniel’s chest, and her beaming smile once more returns. “Let’s get you all inside then, hm?” She turns around with a flick of her wrist and leads them all towards the small grey studio building.

Kevin gets handed off to an aide as soon as they’re all through the heavy back door and the small barrier of two security officers. Nathaniel spends half a second watching Kevin’s back retreat down the corridor before he’s swept along with the Foxes into a large, dark room with theater seats. The Foxes, due to Kevin’s involvement in this morning’s show, have been granted front row seats. There’s only a small, frail fence and twenty feet of floor space and cameras separating Nathaniel from the stage. One hundred and eighty degrees, and he would be the center of those camera’s attention.

Holding back the threat of rising bile, Nathaniel takes a seat between Abby and Matt. He does his best to relax, listening to Matt joking around with Dan and the three fifth-year seniors. However, being surrounded by so many people in a dark room starts making Nathaniel jittery almost immediately, and he hates the sensation just as much as the newfound plague of “loneliness.”

It doesn’t take long for the remainder of the audience to filter in, for all of the lights, excluding the guiding LEDs inlaid in the floor, to drop. Once everyone is seated, the show starts. Nathaniel watches Kathy come on stage, catalogues her interactions with the audience and the cameras. She looks relaxed and comfortable, and the tension in Nathaniel’s gut eases the more he watches her, dissecting her every movement and word.

Once the introduction of the show passes, Kathy stops her emphasized pacing near her desk and faces the cameras and the audience beyond. “Do I have a special treat for you all today,” she says. “It took some convincing, but I managed to wrangle a very, very important guest onto the show this morning. Please, help me in giving a loud, warm welcome to… Kevin Day!”

Kevin comes onto the stage from the left. He’s outfitted in a sharp, well-cut suit and a winning smile. The crowd positively roars behind Nathaniel, and the Foxes join in with the cheering and clapping. Matt wolf-whistles. Raphael cat-calls. Nathaniel just tries to convince himself to keep breathing in the upheaval, feeling unsteady on the floor vibrating with the excited stomping of hundreds of feet.

On stage, Kathy and Kevin share a quick hug and some air kisses to each other’s cheeks, and then Kathy waves Kevin to his seat on the guest sofa. They both seem immune to the demanding audience. They just wait patiently, and, although it takes a long time – probably too long for the producers of the live program – eventually the crowd settles.

“Kevin… Kevin, Kevin, Kevin,” Kathy shakes her head. Her hands fold neatly on her desk. “We’ve all been worried about you since we got the news of your accident. It’s a terrible, terrible thing. How have you been?”

“Well, I can’t say it’s been easy,” Kevin admits. His hardship is exaggerated in his tone, his downcast eyes. Nathaniel positively _aches_ for him. “But it’s nice to still be around the sport, even if I can’t play.”

“That’s right,” Kathy says, and her remorse is gone that fast, replaced by a winning smile. “You’ve become an informal assistant coach for the Palmetto State Foxes, haven’t you?” She parts her lips as if to continue, but a cluster of people in the far back corner of the crowd start booing, and it doesn’t take long for a few others to join in.

Nathaniel can’t say that he disagrees with their assessment of the team.

Kathy holds up her hand for quiet, the slightest of smirks playing at her red lips. She turns back to Kevin. “How have they been treating you?”

“Great,” Kevin is quick to say, his smile stubbornly held in place. “Coach Wymack took me in and offered me a position helping out with the team. The Foxes have a lot of talent – a lot of talent. I’m hoping to get them where they need to be by the start of next season.”

“That’s good news.” The audience, taking Kathy’s supportive cue, applauds. The room fills and expands with enough sound to set Nathaniel on edge again, clenching his teeth. “It’s got to be so difficult for you to be away from your family, though.” Nathaniel snorts, loud enough to briefly catch Matt’s attention. “Riko especially. Have you two stayed in contact at all?”

Kevin pauses, and Nathaniel watches the quick way Kevin’s eyes move as he tries to come up with an answer that won’t make the Moriyamas pissed at him but that will still satisfy Kathy and the ravenous audience. “Exy,” Kevin starts, slowly but with building momentum, “is a very demanding sport, as you know. I’ve had my hands full with my new team, and Riko’s focusing on finals and, I’m sure, the championship coming up at the end of the season. There hasn’t been a lot of time to spend communicating.”

Nathaniel hums, surprised at how deftly Kevin handled that, considering it’s the first time he’s been interviewed since the “accident.”

“That’s really tragic,” Kathy says, setting her hand on top of Kevin’s for a brief moment. “I think we should do something to fix this,” Kathy says, and here she turns to her captivated audience. She gets to her feet, and, as if guided by some pre-decided signal, music begins to trickle into the studio, soft at first, but with the promise of a crescendoed bass soon to come. Ice falls on Nathaniel – he recognizes the song. On stage, a thousand miles away from the panic consuming Nathaniel, Kathy sweeps her arm to her right and says, “Everyone, please give a very warm welcome to Riko Moriyama and Jean Moreau!”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE THIS CHAPTER
> 
> ****UPDATE: there's art for this chapter now!! you can find it [right over here](https://i-am-weis.tumblr.com/post/170180393547/at-this-point-nathaniel-turns-to-the-audience)

The Ravens’ fight song plays through the studio, menacing and overbearing, and the crowd loses its damn collective mind. There’s a disturbance down the line of Foxes, but Nathaniel can’t look, can’t take his eyes off the two men making their way upstage. Riko looks as usual – haughty, proud, smug, sauntering as if he owns the whole world. His public face is on, the one that gives him a bad boy vibe that girls for some reason find extremely desirable. He has the crowd in his palm, and all he’s done is smirk at them.

And Jean… _fuck_ , Jean has lost weight. Not a lot, not enough for the crowd to be able to notice, but enough that Nathaniel can pick out the missing pounds in Jean’s hollow cheeks, his bony wrists, the slightly looser fitting of the black suit on his shoulders. The red ties that both men wear make them look taller, regal. Riko needs all the help he can get, coming in at only five-foot-five, but on Jean, with his runner’s build and his minutely drawn-in shoulders, it makes him look gangly. Of course, that’s the point.

Nathaniel gets lost in the color scheme, in the shuddering bass of the music, and for a moment, he’s back in the Nest, back in his own personal hell, in the prison that had masqueraded as a home for nearly a decade.

Kathy greets Riko and Jean the same way she greeted Kevin – all quick hugs and air kisses – and then Riko turns to Kevin. The hug they share is friendly to the audience, but Nathaniel can see the signs in Kevin that indicate just how uncomfortable the former striker is. Kevin pulls away from Riko ghostly pale, and his hug with Jean is loose at best and shaky underneath it all. Nathaniel watches Kevin collapse into the safety of his sofa with Riko and Jean seated opposite him on the other side of Kathy’s desk.

In front of him is the only family that Nathaniel has ever known, all sitting on stage, hands folded and PR smiles on. Behind their masks, they’re still the brothers that used and abused him, the older forces of power that brought him to heal. Them, and Jean. Nathaniel’s chest constricts, crushing his rabbit heart. He’s not surprised when his breathing becomes too heavy and too fast.

“Easy, Nathaniel,” Abby whispers, setting her hand firmly on his leg. Beyond her, there’s more commotion among the Foxes that Nathaniel doesn’t have time for. He’s not super thrilled about Abby touching him, but he can convince himself at this point that it’s _just_ Abby. He’s learning, slowly, to trust her. She’s the safest person around him at the moment.

Eternities pass before the audience finally settles down, and Kathy seats herself at her desk and grins between the three men occupying her sofas. “Look at this,” she says, and is immediately greeted by a chorus of screams and cheers. “One, two, and four, all in one room. We’ve almost got the whole set.” Nathaniel’s stomach drops out, but he pushes past the queasy feeling and stays focused on the stage. Kevin is shaking and trying his damnedest to hide it. Jean is pale and distant, focused enough that he won’t miss a direct question, but Nathaniel knows what Jean’s dissociation looks like. Kathy doesn’t miss a beat in refocusing the interview. “How long has it been since you three have been in contact with each other?”

“A little over two months,” Riko says, eyeing Kevin in a way could be mistaken as friendly – if the observer was blind. “We’ve had a tough time without Kevin at home. I tried sending you a message, Kevin, almost four weeks ago now. Have you changed phone numbers? You never did answer back. Did you get my message, Kevin?” Nathaniel doesn’t understand chess, but he understands Riko and the Moriyamas. In one move, Riko has pinned Kevin into a corner.

Kevin nods. His right hand curls into a fist on his thigh. “I got it. I’m sorry for not responding. I didn’t…” Kevin swallows. “I didn’t know what to say.”

Kathy forms an “aw” face from her desk and the audience makes the noise for her. Nathaniel can understand how, out of context, Kevin’s response could be taken as choked-up emotion, but he doesn’t understand how people can be so blind when faced with an abuser and their victim.

“And Jean?” Kathy leans over her desk, seeking out Jean’s gaze from around Riko. “How are you handling Kevin’s departure?”

Nathaniel’s fists tighten when he sees the way Jean glances first at Riko and then at Kathy. So much has changed in less than a month.

“We miss Kevin desperately,” Jean says, meeting Kathy’s gaze and then, briefly, sweeping his eyes to the cameras and the shadow of the audience beyond. “All of us at Edgar Allan would like nothing more than for him to come home.”

Nathaniel bares his teeth at the thought of the threats keeping Jean in check right now. Blood rushes so loudly in his ears that he almost misses Riko’s next words. “Of course, Kevin wouldn’t be able to play, not with that injury. There’s no recovering from a break that bad. But he’s wasting his talent at PSU. He should be the assistant coach for the Ravens, not the Foxes.”

“Are you saying that Edgar Allan has a position open for an assistant coach?” Kathy asks, glancing mischievously towards the cameras. The audience picks up her level of enthusiasm, and they stir restlessly behind Nathaniel. A few people let out sparse but jarring shouts and whistles.

Riko appraises the audience and then Kevin. “I’m saying that we would make one available, if Kevin were to –”

Nathaniel has heard enough. In this situation, there’s a long list of things that he doesn’t care about. Kevin as a human being is at the top of that list. But there’s an even longer list of things that he does care about, like Jean and everything that Jean represents – and like making a fool of Riko. Nathaniel doesn’t give a single hot shit about Kevin, but he wants to shove Riko’s superiority down his throat, and he won’t be able to live with himself if he passes up an opportunity to see Jean face to face.

So he whistles, and it’s piercing enough to cut through the audience chatter and to stop Riko’s monologue in its tracks. In less than a second, everyone in the studio is staring at Nathaniel. The eyes make Nathaniel’s skin crawl.

_Too late. Move._

Reining in his PR training, Nathaniel launches out of his chair before Abby or Matt can grab him, and he hops the small fence in front of him with ease. The swagger he settles into feels too stickily similar to who he was at Evermore, so he switches it up, loosens his shoulders and sharpens his smile. He can taste his father in that smile, but he thinks here, facing down Riko – resurrecting himself from the dead – that it might be an okay thing to embody just a pinch of the Butcher.

Nathaniel will take a bullet for Kevin if it means getting a shot at Riko, if it means drawing Riko from Jean, if it means touching Jean, feeling that he’s real. Besides, Nathaniel is used to Riko’s wrath, and he has far thicker skin than Kevin does.

“Sorry I’m late, Kathy,” Nathaniel says, smiling as he pushes his way through the sea of cameramen and other workers trying to keep him from interrupting the show. Eventually, he hits the stage and manages to pull his way up. The lights are bright and they burn him to ash. He doesn’t feel real under the scrutiny of so many people. “I got lost somewhere on I440 and I must have missed my turn downtown, too.” He makes his voice loud so that, even without a mic, everyone can hear him. “I didn’t even have time to change.” At this point, Nathaniel turns to the audience and the cameras, giving them a good view of the number three tattooed on his cheek. There’s a brief pause, a lull of disbelief, and then the audience loses all semblance of control.

Rumors of a number three player for Riko’s perfect court have been circling since Jean started playing as number four. The internet – social media, especially – blew up with speculation, wondering if Riko was saving the number three spot for a different position other than backliner, or if Riko already had a number three, but they just weren’t old enough to play yet. The latter theory had been less accepted, as correct theories generally are. Nathaniel had enjoyed stirring up the rumors on Twitter in the moments that he had downtime due to Jean being at class, but now he can’t even look back at those memories as fond ones.

Kathy, talented talk show host that she is, quickly hides her astonishment and gets up without any hesitation. She walks behind Riko and Jean to give Nathaniel a hug and air kisses while the audience cheers her on. Kevin is the first to Nathaniel after Kathy, and he holds Nathaniel like a lifeline. Nathaniel tolerates it for the moment it lasts, and then courtesy dictates that Kevin has to let go. Riko replaces Kevin near-immediately, and Nathaniel puts on a goofy grin that Riko has always hated and wraps the asshole in a loose, brotherly hug. His bravado doesn’t do anything to calm his churning stomach or his wildly beating heart. Nathaniel can feel Riko’s tension in his shoulders and arms, but he knows that the audience won’t be able to see it. When Riko pulls away, he taps the underside of Nathaniel’s chin with his finger and his mouth twitches. As Riko takes a step back, Nathaniel hollows out and his knees shake.

Jean, always, sadly last, catches Nathaniel in a hug before he can collapse on stage. Nathaniel grips Jean the way Kevin gripped Nathaniel, but Jean returns the affection tenfold. When the hug doesn’t break right away, the audience whistles and stamps their feet, eating up the show of affection. Nathaniel clings to Jean, his hands twisting up in the fabric of his suit jacket. His arms around Jean’s waist are tight, and Jean flinches against him in pain. God and that cuts through Nathaniel, knowing that beneath his clothes Jean is battered and bruised and all alone in his suffering. But Jean doesn’t pull away, and Nathaniel understands that sometimes the affection is worth the pain.

So he buries his face in Jean’s shoulder and allows himself one more moment, one more breath where he’s apologizing to Jean with a slow sweep of his thumb over Jean’s back.

When Nathaniel parts from Jean, Kathy directs him with a sweep of her hand towards the side of the stage, where a technician clips a microphone onto his shirt. Nathaniel watches the man’s hands move, and he tucks the cord under his new, not-red-or-black shirt himself. When he’s all set up, he returns to center stage and takes his seat next to Kevin.

All attention returns to Nathaniel, which was, of course, the whole point – get Riko off of Kevin, get Riko focused on Nathaniel, save Kevin because Kevin always needs saving – but it doesn’t make Nathaniel feel any better.

Riko’s gaze is ice.

Nathaniel smiles and tips his head just slightly to the left.

“I am allowed to say your name, right?” Kathy jokes, getting some scattered laughter from the audience and directing attention back to herself.

Nathaniel works up a short, good-humored chuckle and leans forward to brace his elbows on his knees. “You are. Though, my last name’s a bit difficult to pronounce, so you had better leave that to the game announcers. Let them slaughter it for you.”

Kathy laughs with the audience. “But seriously, Nathaniel, where have you been? Why haven’t we seen you before?”

Nathaniel shrugs. “I wasn’t signed yet, so, I mean, it was a big secret, right? If someone else, a rival school, found out that Riko had hand-picked me as a player, then that would signal to them that I was good, and open my whereabouts up to potential recruiters. So I was a big secret. Cat’s out of the bag now, though. Thank you again for letting me debut on your show.”

Kathy waves Nathaniel’s gratitude away, but she freezes mid-motion and leans a bit over her desk. “Wait,” she says. “You said ‘yet.’ That you weren’t signed ‘yet.’ Does that mean that you’re signed now? Or am I just reading into things too far?” Though it was meant to be a joke, the audience stays silent, hanging in the air for Nathaniel’s reply.

After a glance at Kevin and a breathy sweep of his eyes to where he knows the Foxes are waiting in the wings – though he can’t see a thing past the lights – Nathaniel nods. “Actually, I, uh…” He laughs, and it’s awkward, and he wouldn’t do it at all save for his PR training. “I just signed with the PSU Foxes this morning.”

Across from Nathaniel, Riko goes deathly still, and Jean won’t – probably can’t – meet his gaze. Beyond the sea of cameras and crew, the Foxes cheer while the rest of the audience stays clammed up. That’s fine. Nathaniel isn’t done nailing his coffin closed yet. “You know, I should really be thanking Riko for the opportunity to look at other options. It’s because of him that I was introduced to the Foxes.”

Kathy swivels to look at Riko. “Really? What made that happen? I thought for sure that you would be hoarding such a charmer.”

Without missing a beat, Nathaniel winks at her, though his chest his caving.

Riko gives himself a full second to gather himself before he responds. “Nathaniel was missing Kevin. We all were, but Nathaniel was the only one of us who wasn’t busy practicing, so I gave him the clear to fly out to Palmetto and see Kevin. About three weeks ago, he notified me that he wouldn’t be coming back to play for the Ravens, and it was a devastating loss, but PSU is a fitting place for him.” At this point, if the audience has been paying attention, they might notice that Riko’s story about sending Kevin a message and this new one about Nathaniel flying out for a visit don’t corroborate. But he doubts that anyone cares enough to tag those two lies.

The gleam in Kathy’s eyes tells Nathaniel that she’s more than enjoying this juicy bit of gossip, this banter between four men that will surely make her views skyrocket. “Why’s that? Are you saying that Nathaniel wouldn’t have had a place at Edgar Allan after all? Regretting choosing him, are you?”

“Oh, no,” Riko says. “No, I stand by my decision. Nathaniel is a top-tier backliner. Better than Jean, if I’m honest, which is why Nathaniel was chosen first.” Jean manages to put on a face and smile. “He has the potential to be the best backliner in Exy history. But,” Riko continues, “he’s not without his issues. Plus he’s young, inexperienced. He never did get on well with the other players, and he rebuked authority. Kevin, if he decides to stay at PSU, is going to have his hands full. Maybe the Foxes can break Nathaniel of his on-court problems.”

Kathy misses Riko’s dig at one of Nathaniel’s weaknesses and diverts them all back to her prepared questions. She asks Kevin what he thinks of the Ravens’ performance this year, asks Riko what his plans are for the championship, teases Kevin about his dedication to watching all of the Trojans’ games, asks Jean and Nathaniel questions about growing up at Evermore that they have to navigate like a minefield.

“We’re almost out of time,” Kathy says, and the words settle over Nathaniel soothingly, “but I have to ask each of you… what is in store for your futures? Kevin, since you’re the honored guest tonight, let’s start with you.” The look on Riko’s face when Kathy places him lower than Kevin has Nathaniel grinning like crazy.

Kevin takes a moment in what appears to be reflection, staring down at his newly-freed left hand, before answering. “You know, Kathy,” Kevin says, and he looks past Nathaniel towards the Foxes before finally turning his gaze to the host, “my cast came off early this week. I’m in physical therapy right now, but… it’s going to feel great to pick up a racquet again.”

The audience understands faster than Kathy does, and the roar is so loud that the stage beneath Nathaniel’s feet shakes. Kathy can’t rein them in. Eventually, she just gives up on trying. She says something barely audible about a commercial break and then signals the end of the interview.

Nathaniel grabs Kevin’s wrist and drags him out of there as fast as possible. They stop at the edge of the stage for their microphones to be taken off, and then Nathaniel lets Kevin lead him backstage to a spot where they can meet up with the Foxes. Jumping over the feeble fence would have been faster and easier, but there are too many rabid fans for it to be even remotely safe.

Unfortunately, Nathaniel isn’t fast enough to get them out before Riko and Jean can follow.

As soon as the four of them are alone, Riko grabs Nathaniel and shoves him back towards Jean, who catches and steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. Nathaniel can infer that Jean is meant to detain him, but Jean doesn’t. This close and in a silent hallway, Nathaniel can feel and hear each pained breath passing through Jean’s lungs. _What did he do to you?_ But Nathaniel knows, and it hurts him that he wasn’t there, that Jean had to suffer alone.

Riko faces Kevin, furious, hands clenched into fists. “You dare,” Riko snarls in Japanese. “You _dare_ try to play again? For a team other than mine? You belong to me. Your game belongs to me.”

Kevin’s bravery apparently died on the stage, because he shrinks back from Riko’s wrath.

Nathaniel is not as easily cowed. True, Riko terrifies Nathaniel, haunts his nightmares just as much as his mother does, but Nathaniel isn’t going to let Riko walk all over Kevin, not when Nathaniel just announced himself to the world and came back into the land of the living to save Kevin’s ass. In for a penny, in for the weight of his body in gold.

He pulls away from Jean’s lose grip and grabs Riko’s arm, spinning him around and away from Kevin. “Leave him the fuck alone,” Nathaniel says in English, just to piss off Riko even more. Nathaniel has never been smart with his mouth. “You don’t own him.” Factually speaking, that statement is correct. Kaleigh left Kevin in Tetsuji’s care out of misplaced trust and sense of family. Kevin stayed because he had nowhere else to go. But that’s not how Riko’s mind works.

Riko’s expression turns dark and threatening. “You. You’re supposed to be dead.”

Nathaniel lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Last I checked, I’m still breathing.”

“I can fix that.” Too fast for Nathaniel to keep up with, Riko spins Nathaniel around and shoves him against the white wall. He pins Nathaniel’s hands above his head, knots his fingers in Nathaniel’s hair to grind his cheek into the wall, and then leans in. Their bodies touch everywhere; Nathaniel is surrounded. Somewhere in the background, Kevin makes a tiny whimper of protest, and, as if that was his cue, Jean moves out of Nathaniel’s line of sight. “So,” Riko says, soft and sultry, with his mouth right beside Nathaniel’s ear, “this is what you look like up against a wall. I can understand now why even the straight men like you – from this angle you look so… what’s the word I’m looking for, hm? The one they called you all the time. _Oh_ , that’s right. _Pretty_.”

With the flip of that switch, breathing becomes a battle Nathaniel isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to win. He widens his eyes, looking for Jean through his rising panic, but Jean isn’t there anymore since he’s most likely holding Kevin back. All Nathaniel can see is the stretch of hallway leading back to the stage and Riko’s arm stretching over his head to hold up his hands. Nathaniel’s pulse is too loud, banging away against his ribs and in his ears until it threatens to drive him mad.

“Now, you listen to me, pet. Regardless of what you may believe about Kevin, I do, in fact, own _you_. You’re not allowed to sign with anyone except the Ravens. You think your life was bad before? I’ll make it _hell_ for you. You are going to regret the moment you drew your first breath on that wretched campus, and every breath you’ve taken since. You are going to regret not dying, and you are going to regret not killing yourself. You are _mine_. Just like Jean is mine. You were a transaction. My uncle and I paid for you. I will not let you just walk away from –”

“Riko.”

Immediately, Riko releases Nathaniel, whose knees instantly give out. He falls to the floor, still facing the wall, wrapped up in his head and his fears and his desperation to breathe. His wrists boil where Riko touched him, and if Nathaniel could move, he would be rubbing them raw.

Fingers snap in front of his face, and Nathaniel manages to lift his head enough to take in all five feet of Andrew, who is standing between Riko and him. “Get up, Nathaniel,” Andrew says, never once taking his eyes off of Riko. “The team is waiting at the end of the hallway. Ignore the broken body guard when you pass him.”

Nathaniel shifts to autopilot. He pushes to his feet, staggers a couple of steps, and somehow makes it to Kevin. His hands knot in the sleeve of the suit jacket that no one has come to collect. Nathaniel twists his head long enough to catch Jean’s eye, and then he starts leading Kevin away.

From behind Nathaniel, Andrew’s voice echoes. “You know I don’t enjoy it when people touch my things, Riko. I don’t share.”

“Nathaniel isn’t yours. He belongs to me.”

“Oh really? Want to bet? I’ll fight you for him. We both know I’d win.”

Nathaniel and Kevin round a corner, and Andrew’s voice is lost. They pass a prone man, one of Riko’s, but Nathaniel keeps moving. After another corner, the congregated team comes into full view. Wymack and Abby are closest and already staring at them. James is pacing in the back of the group, and Dan is off to the side holding Matt, or maybe Matt is holding Dan. Nathaniel can’t keep his grip long enough to try to figure it out. He gives a shove to Kevin, hard enough to make the ex-striker (future-striker?) stumble the remaining distance to the others. Abby catches him up in her arms and wraps him in a tight embrace.

In the middle of the hallway, Nathaniel falls to his knees once more.

There are so many voice in his head that he can’t make anything out, can’t pick up just one of the conversations. Someone screams and he’s not sure if it’s something banging around in his skull or if it’s happening in real time. There’s a shout, and that sounds more real, but he can’t focus, can’t focus, can’t _breathe_ through the hands all over him pulling at his clothes and his hair, through the wall against his chest, the bruising grip on his hips, the teeth on his shoulder, the fist in his hair, the encouragement of the other men in the room, the grunting in his ear, the moans, the feeling of emptiness swallowing him whole.

His back slams into a wall and a hand closes around his throat, pushing his head up and back until it, too, hits the wall. Nathaniel grabs the wrist holding him before he opens his eyes. The grip on his throat loosens and Nathaniel drags in a breath, another, another, and when his vision finally clears, he finds Andrew in front of him, kneeling and staring with a grim smile on his face. “Your attitude problem is going to be a nightmare,” Andrew says.

They’re only touching where Nathaniel is still gripping Andrew’s wrist. Nathaniel releases Andrew, but his eyes catch and hold on the smear of blood left behind on what little pale skin is visible below Andrew’s armbands. Confusion warps Nathaniel’s already muddled brain. “You’re…?” His thoughts go to Riko and to Andrew’s knives and his memories are more than happy to morph into dangerous thoughts.

“Oh no,” Andrew says, drawing Nathaniel’s attention out of that dark hole. “No, _you’re_ the idiot,” he corrects, nodding towards Nathaniel’s arms. Nathaniel doesn’t want to take his focus off of Andrew, but his lifts his arms to face level so that he can see what Andrew’s talking about. “You’re one fucked up asshole. Scratching yourself until you bleed. Obviously pain doesn’t make you stop panicking, so why do it?”

“You should know,” Nathaniel says, sounding slightly winded, as he taps Andrew’s right armband with a fingernail. Andrew has nothing to say to that.

Slowly, Nathaniel starts coming back to himself. He remembers exactly where they are, why they’re here. He pans his gaze and takes in the Foxes standing worriedly behind Andrew, Kevin still clinging koala-like to Abby. Nathaniel almost loses himself again when his eyes trail too far, back down the hallways to where Riko probably still is, but Andrew slams him back against the wall hard enough to keep Nathaniel’s attention focused solely on Andrew.

“You’re done panicking,” Andrew says with so much confidence that Nathaniel almost believes him.

But hope and faith are dangerous things, and Nathaniel can’t stand the sight of them right now. “Go take care of Kevin,” he says, but he shivers when Andrew pulls away. Andrew says something to Abby, then to Kevin, and soon Andrew is shoving Kevin down the hall and out of the building.

With her hands suddenly empty, Abby hurries to Nathaniel’s side. Despite her proffered hand, Nathaniel staggers to his feet on his own. He can’t stand the thought of being touched right now.

Abby takes the rejection in stride, sticking as close to Nathaniel as possible as they follow the Foxes in the wake of Andrew and Kevin. “You are all going to be the death of me, I swear it. My heart can’t take watching you all hurt like this.” Nathaniel doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. When they’re outside, he stops walking for a moment to tip his head into the morning sun. Abby stops beside him. “You didn’t pull any stitches, did you? I’d hate to have you wreck your wounds now.”

“I took the last of them out Friday morning,” Nathaniel says.

Abby goes quiet a moment, but then she just sighs and shakes her head before motioning Nathaniel onward. The bus is waiting for them across the parking lot, and Palmetto is patiently sitting somewhere on the southern horizon, so Nathaniel follows.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and once more I'm apologizing for my snail-paced update speed
> 
> I'm really really sorry

Abby offers to bandage Nathaniel’s forearms as soon as they get on the bus. He takes the roll of white bandages himself and retreats to a seat in the middle, as far away from everyone else as he can get. Nathaniel doesn’t think he needs to bandage his arms, since they’re not bleeding much anymore and he’ll just end up taking the bandages off in the morning, but he does it to keep himself occupied as Wymack turns the engine over and shifts into gear.

Nathaniel glues himself back together with the molten rage he feels for Riko, sealing in his hollow fear and slamming a gate on it. It won’t hold; it never does. He hates the way his fear eats him alive, acid in his core determined to find a way out.

By the time Wymack parks the bus in front of Fox Tower, Nathaniel is more than ready to get off. Wymack leaves the engine running and twists in his seat to face the Foxes. “We’re having a team meeting tomorrow morning. I don’t give a damn about anything else that you might have going on; cancel it.” He looks at Renee, and she frowns but nods. “I expect all of you at the stadium at nine. I mean it. Every single one of your ugly mugs better be there so that we can talk about what happened this morning and figure out how to deal with it.”

Nathaniel waits for Kevin to speak up, to tell everyone to stay inside. Riko’s going to retaliate – Riko _always_ retaliates. He’s not going to suffer this insult silently. But Kevin says nothing. There are no words, in any of the languages that Nathaniel knows, to describe his contempt for Kevin and his fear.

But on his head be it. If Kevin can’t open his mouth to save his raggedy team, then Nathaniel isn’t going to put in the effort either. He won’t lose any sleep over them.

Wymack snaps his fingers and opens the door of the bus. “Now go on. Get out of here. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

“With coffee?” Dan asks, rising to her feet and stretching.

“Not if you’re not all off my bus in the next minute.” Which means yes.

Nathaniel files off the bus with the rest of the team. It isn’t even afternoon yet, and the frost from the night still clings to the shadows of the building and the windshields of some of the cars.

He’s the second one into the suite, and he leaves the door open for Matt, who happens to also lead Dan inside. Dan stays in the entranceway while Matt heads to the bedroom. Maybe they’ll leave. Maybe Jacob will, too. Nathaniel would like to be alone for a while. For now, though, he moves into the kitchen and starts the Keurig. He grabs a banana and, after staring into the fridge a moment, a cheese stick too. When his coffee’s done, Nathaniel migrates back into the living room. He stares long and hard at the chair, considers sitting down, opening up his laptop. He’s sick and tired of his schoolwork, but he has another full semester and he needs to graduate.

He can’t sit.

Nathaniel shoves a bite of banana into his mouth and starts pacing. Jacob awkwardly tries not to watch him, but it just makes Nathaniel’s awareness of the offensive dealer more immediate. Dan is not shy about the gaze she levels on Nathaniel. He feels it sliding up and down his spine, seeping into the cracks in his composure that his fear is still progressively eating through.

“Hey,” Matt says as he returns from the bedroom in loose sweatpants and a baggy red t-shirt. Nathaniel doesn’t look at the fabric for long, barely looks at Matt as he takes a sip of too-hot coffee and another bite of banana. “Are you okay?”

Nathaniel can’t think of a reason that Matt would be asking. The self-inflicted scratches on his arms are nothing and the fear will go away in a few minutes, once Nathaniel is sure that Riko isn’t going to barge in and take back what’s technically his. What happened today was nothing, _nothing_ compared to what Nathaniel’s had to deal with in the past. “I’ve had worse,” he says, and doesn’t break his stride.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m fine.”

Matt looks like he wants to say something else, something pained judging by the look on his face, but Dan sets her hand on his arm, and Matt’s mouth closes.

From the sofa, Jacob says, “That’s a load of horse shit.”

Nathaniel stops pacing, coffee sloshing quietly. He lifts the mug to his lips to hide the shaking in his hands. He’s not sure why he’s angry, but he raises his eyebrows as an invitation for Jacob to keep going.

Jacob heaves a sigh and scrubs a hand over his short hair, frazzling some of the tight curls. “Look, Nathaniel, we’re trying to help you. We’re trying to… look out for you. To be there when you need us.”

It’s everything Nathaniel can do not to sneer. He doesn’t need their help. He’s only ever needed Jean’s help, and none of these assholes will ever be able to replace Jean.

Accepting their help feels like he’s abandoning Jean, and he’ll never do that.

Calmly, Nathaniel sets his coffee down on the side table next to his chair. He sets his food down there, too, and then he sits, because pacing is getting him nothing. He doesn’t want to answer Jacob.

“We want to help you,” Dan says, shifting around Matt so that she can see him better. She hasn’t dropped her “oh captain, my captain” act yet. “You’re obviously not okay, so don’t lie about it.”

Nathaniel leans forward, elbows on his knees, and spreads his hands. “Define _okay_. Define _fine_.” When Dan looks confused, Nathaniel keeps going, tone flat and unrushed. “Where I’m from,” he says, and the weight of his voice leaves no doubt exactly where he’s talking about, “if you can still play the game, you’re fine. You don’t even have to play it _well_. You just have to be able to hold a racquet and move your feet. That’s _fine_. These,” Nathaniel lifts his arms a fraction, showing off the stark white of the bandages, “are scrapes. This,” he taps his temple, “is normal. Panic attacks are nothing new, and they don’t keep me from playing. So I’m _okay_. I’m in one piece and I don’t have a knife in my back, so I’m _fine_.”

“Jesus, Nathaniel,” Matt says. Nathaniel doesn’t understand the pain in Matt’s voice, where it could possibly be coming from. “You’re not fine. You can play, sure, I won’t argue you that, but you’re not fine. Panic attacks are not _fine._ Facing your abuser for Kevin is not _fine._ I’m glad you did it – shit, we all are – but we also all saw you afterwards. You’re. Not. Fine.” Matt’s voice cracks, threatens to break. Dan rubs his shoulder. “You’re not fine,” he repeats. “You’re as far from fine as I’ve ever seen anyone, and I’m a Fox. I’ve seen a lot of fucked-up people.”

“Look, I…” Nathaniel blows out a sharp huff of air. He doesn’t get it. Why does him being _fine_ matter so much? Dan claims that they’re trying to help him, but help him with what? Nathaniel can play Exy, and that’s all that matters. That’s all that has ever mattered. “Exy is all I’ve ever had,” he says slowly, trying to work everything out in his head – their kindness, their concern. He’s overwhelmed. He’s frustrated as hell. “I don’t know how to handle things that don’t inevitably relate back to Exy. That’s not my life, not how I was raised. You say that being fine has nothing to do with my ability to play, but I have nothing else to compare it to. What is the line between _fine_ and _not fine_? At what point am I supposed to know when I’ve crossed it?”

Jacob, Matt, and Dan stare at Nathaniel in silence for a long moment. Finally, Matt says, “I want to hug you.”

“Don’t.” Any contact right now and Nathaniel might explode.

Jacob covers his face with his hands and makes a low noise in the back of his throat. Frustrated, maybe. Good. “How the fuck do I explain this?” he mutters, maybe just to himself, maybe a plea to Matt and Dan. At any rate, the latter two upperclassmen don’t offer up any advice. With a heavy sigh, Jacob raises his head and looks up at Nathaniel. “Let’s put it this way. Being _fine_ means that you’re content. Maybe you’re stressed about a test coming up or a game on Friday, but overall you’re comfortable and secure and… content. Yeah, I think that’s the best word.” He pauses, chews on his lip for a while as he seems to sort through his thoughts. “ _Not fine_ is being covered in stitches and having panic attacks and nightmares that wake you up every other night at two a.m.”

Matt blinks in surprise at Jacob. Dan says, “What? What are you talking about?” But Jacob is only looking at Nathaniel and says nothing in response to Dan.

“Well, then by your standards, I’ve never been fine,” Nathaniel says, smoothly, easily. A weight lifts from his shoulders. “But I’m not one of you. I don’t work like you do. Until my bones are shattered, I’ll be fine.”

Jacob sags, defeated. Nathaniel feels emboldened, like he just won something, but he’s not sure what his prize is.

“Are you sure I can’t hug you?” Matt asks, looking halfway ready to take a step forward, arms lifting at his sides.

Nathaniel is ready to get to his feet and out of Matt’s reach when there’s a knock on the doorframe that redirects everyone’s attention. “That’s my job, Boyd,” Nicky says, smiling from the threshold. Nathaniel bares his teeth at the implication of those words, but no one sees him.

Matt returns the smile, though there’s still tension in the lines of his body, visible through the loose t-shirt. “Did Andrew finally let you out of detention?”

Nicky’s smile wavers for a moment before it’s back in full force. “I’m out on probation.”

“You looking to play a game?” Jacob asks, pointing his thumb towards the TV.

“Actually, I need to ask Matt a favor. Do you think you can replace a window?”

Matt sighs and purses his lips, like he’s thinking exactly what Nathaniel is. “Probably.”

“You’ll get paid for it. Just don’t tell any of the hall staff and get it done by tomorrow morning.”

“If you can get Andrew out of the room, I’ll do it tonight.”

“Thanks, Matt!” Nicky turns his smile on Nathaniel. “Andrew wants to see you.”

Typical. All Nathaniel wants is to be left alone, to forget about this morning if at all possible. He doesn’t want to think about it until he’s forced to tomorrow morning at the team meeting. But he supposes that it was naïve of him to think he could be left to his thoughts here more than at the Nest. Privacy didn’t exist there, but here where that freedom is given, everyone seems desperate to be included in all the newest drama.

Nathaniel takes another sip of his coffee and then rises to his feet. He leaves the coffee on the table to get cold.

Nicky leads him into the suite two doors down, and Nathaniel’s eyes sweep the room. The layout is identical to his own, but the decoration is vastly different. More homey, maybe, not that Nathaniel really knows the difference. But where the walls in his own dorm are bare, the walls here are covered in posters, and joined strings of fairy lights hang from the perimeter of the ceiling. The desks are in the living room, and instead of a couch there’s three large beanbags. A gaming system is hooked up to the TV, but Nathaniel doesn’t have time to see if it’s the same type as Matt’s.

Nathaniel marks Aaron sitting in one of the beanbags, marks Kevin seated at one of the desks, bent over a book with his headphones in. No one looks at him or even so much as acknowledges his presence. Nicky walks through to the bedroom, and Nathaniel follows a few steps behind. The door is closed, and Nicky knocks before opening it. “Nathaniel’s here.”

After a moment of disregarded silence, Nicky steps back and motions to Nathaniel, who moves past him and into the room. He closes the door behind him to keep Nicky out. Andrew is seated sideways on one of the four low dressers across the room, cigarette in one hand. He’s backlit by the light shining thought the broken window.

“So you can lose control,” Nathaniel says, mostly to himself. He steps further into the room to lean his shoulder against a bedpost.

Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you’ve been waiting for?” he asks. The cherry of the cigarette flares as he takes a drag. Nathaniel watches the smoke leave Andrew’s lips in a haze that’s slowly sucked out of the hole in the window.

Nathaniel moves his eyes to Andrews lap, staring at the bloody hand perched on his thigh. “That’s why you did it, right? To see if pain could break through that smile on your face?” Nathaniel thinks it’s unnerving, the way Andrew’s emotions can only be expressed through that bubbly, half-crazed smile. He knows that Andrew is required to stay on the drugs, but he wonders how much it pisses Andrew off that his diagnoses is so wrong.

Andrew only stares at Nathaniel, like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. “Pain never solves anything,” he says, tilting his head and picking at the edge of his armband. “It just leaves scars.”

It’s impossible for Nathaniel to not stare at Andrew’s armbands, to not understand what Andrew’s implying, to not think of Jean’s thighs and all of the perfectly straight scars sliced across them. “When –?”

“It’s not your turn,” Andrew says, cutting him off. Nathaniel lets him; there are certain things he would only be willing to talk about in segments, too. “Why did you come along today, Nathaniel? You’re not even part of the team; you didn’t even know where we were going until the upperclassmen got drunk enough to loosen their tongues. You could have just… stayed here. No one would have discovered your little secret. Why risk it?”

Nathaniel hesitates, teetering on the edge of a weakness he doesn’t want to hand over. But Andrew asked, and if they’re playing their truths game, then he has to answer honestly. “When you all had a game yesterday, when you were gone all day, I….” He shakes his head. “I was lonely,” he says, because he promised to tell the truth. “I don’t like being left behind.”

Andrew finishes his cigarette and flicks it out of the spider-webbed window. He crooks his finger at Nathaniel. “Come here, victim.” Nathaniel pushes off of the bedpost, shoving his hands in his pockets as he steps up to Andrew. He stops just out of arm’s reach. Andrew grins. “I’m going to make a deal with you.”

“No.” Nathaniel’s heart stops and restarts at a faster pace. He’s had enough of broken deals and forgotten promises to last a lifetime.

“Shh, shhh. You don’t have a say in this.” Andrew rotates on the dresser to face Nathaniel completely. “I’m going to make a deal with you, and you’re going to accept it because it’s a good deal.” Andrew pauses as if waiting for Nathaniel to say something, but Nathaniel remains quiet. Andrew leans back, his mouth thinning into a tight smile. “You just promised the nation today that you signed with Palmetto State. Kevin just promised the nation that he’s going to play next year. I want you to make that happen.”

“You want me to get Kevin back to where he needs to be so that he can play.”

“I’m impressed. Your memory really is longer than three seconds.”

Nathaniel frowns. “Why?”

“Because Kevin made me a promise, too, and I intend for him to see it through.”

Nathaniel opens his mouth to say something, to protest, but Andrew grabs his collar and uses that grip to pull him closer. He clamps a hand over Nathaniel’s mouth before a sound can get out. The fear that has been eating Nathaniel alive since that morning bursts through. He grabs Andrew’s wrists, and oh, god, this is just like this morning, when Andrew was dragging Nathaniel out of his panic after _Riko_.

“Nathaniel,” Andrew says, making no mention of the elevated breathing or the way Nathaniel’s nails are digging into Andrew’s wrists so hard that Nathaniel expects to see blood welling up at any moment. “Nathaniel, stop.” Aside from his mouth, Andrew doesn’t move. There’s no desire behind his eyes, no loathing or viciousness. There’s nothing. Nothing at all. And it’s that nothing that allows Nathaniel to settle down. “Are you done now? I thought we fixed this problem last week.”

Anger and irritation rise up to drown out the fear, and Nathaniel jerks away. Andrew drops his hands with a laugh. “What do I get out of this deal?” Nathaniel spits, fingers itching at his sides to curl into fists, but he doesn’t want to give Andrew the satisfaction of that reaction.

“My protection,” Andrew says, easy and smooth, and the promise weighs nothing, means nothing to Nathaniel.

“Do I look like I need your protection?”

Something dark and bottomless glints in Andrew’s eyes, and Nathaniel remembers the ease with which Andrew stared down Riko, getting him off of Nathaniel and away from Kevin. He remembers the way Kevin hangs around Andrew like a terrified shadow. He thinks, maybe, Andrew would be worth keeping around. But all Andrew does is eye where the bruises used to ring Nathaniel’s neck. His gaze lands heavy on Nathaniel’s torso, where barely-healed cuts hide under a single layer of clothing. “Yes,” Andrew says simply.

Nathaniel lifts his chin. “I’m still on my feet.”

“That means nothing.”

“It means _everything_.”

Andrew pauses for a moment and digs his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, as if he could hear the eight years of pain behind those three words and isn’t willing to push it. Nathaniel can’t help but be grateful for it. He watches calmly as Andrew lights up. “For someone just as Exy-obsessed as dear Kevin,” Andrew starts, smoke curling past his lips as he speaks, “you don’t mind my smoking the way he does.”

Nathaniel’s tongue turns to ash. “My mother used to smoke.”

“How’d she die?” Andrew asks.

Nathaniel shakes his head, biting his lip until the pain forces words out of his mouth. “It’s not your turn.”

Andrew’s smile is immediate and menacing, but he lets silence settle between them for a long moment before he says, “You’re taking the deal. Now leave.”

Nathaniel turns away without argument, knowing it’s just easier that way. He’s… he’s not losing anything with this deal, not after this morning – after his announcement on Kathy’s show. If he leaves Palmetto now, he’ll be on his own.

But he stops at the door with his hand on the doorknob, staring down at his fingers so that he doesn’t have to turn around and look at Andrew. “Thank you. For this morning.” He doesn’t explain if he means a specific part or the whole thing, since he doesn’t know himself. He doesn’t even know if Andrew’s listening, because Nathaniel leaves the room as soon as the words are out of his mouth.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> despite my resolve when I first started working on this, I've given up always trying to stay several chapters ahead of what I'm posting. There's no point, really, because y'all are getting chapters at the same rate regardless and the story probably isn't going to change
> 
> so here's this
> 
> ****UPDATE: there's art for this chapter now!! you can find it [right over here](https://hi-raethia.tumblr.com/post/167853798829/i-was-bored-so-i-sketched-one-of-my-fav-scenes)

The darkness of four in the morning greets Nathaniel with razor sharp knives and hurricanes in his lungs. A scream claws at his throat for the forty-five seconds it takes him to remember where his is, that Matt is across the room and not Jean, that Jacob is most likely awake on the bunk above Nathaniel. Forty-five seconds to convince himself that his dreams were just dreams, no matter how tightly they still cling to him.

_Move_.

He’s out of bed as soon as he untangles himself from his suffocating sweat-drenched sheets. He grabs a pair of joggers and a dark grey hoodie from his dresser and pulls them on, fumbling to get his foot in the pant leg three times before he finally gets it right. He shoves his feet into his sneakers and grabs his keys, and then he’s gone.

Stretching on the outside steps of Fox Tower hurts like a bitch, but Nathaniel does it anyway, pushing through the pain until he can’t stand there any longer. He needs to move, feels the anxiety and the need to run rushing through him. He’s loose enough, so he jogs to the stadium, calling it a warmup.

Nathaniel still hasn’t been granted a set of court keys from Wymack, so he has to break into the locker room and the storage room and the court. He sifts through the gear for something in his size and eventually gives up; he’s not actually playing, and he can move more freely if he’s not held down by padding. Finding a racquet is easier, since he knows his length and weight perfectly, and Wymack has more than enough to choose from – probably from past players and Nathaniel’s sense that Wymack likes to be prepared.

There’s a bucket of orange balls sitting just inside the doorway of the storage room, and a stack of fluorescent cones tucked into the corner. Several hours stretch between Nathaniel and the morning meeting, so he grabs both.

By the time Nathaniel locks himself onto the court, it’s pushing five a.m. He breathes in like a drowning man, and he relaxes. The ventilators on the ceiling hum pleasantly, the most soothing of lullabies. The floor of the court is polished, clean, but the faint smell of exertion clings to the Plexiglas box in a way that’s reassuring. With his panic tuned back, Nathaniel takes the time to do proper warm up stretches, sitting down to stretch out his legs, hissing at the way his hamstrings pull from lack of use. He pulls his arms across his chest and windmills them, and despite the burn that means he’s out of shape, it still feels good – feels great, in fact. Once he’s good and loose, he starts in on laps. He’s not accustomed to running inside the court, since it’s the outside perimeter that eventually adds up to a mile, but he’s not about to leave the court for something so silly as making laps. He’s been away for too long. So he just runs until he’s tired, until his muscles are straining and his lungs are screaming, until there’s a smile plastered to his face threatening to make his cheek muscles hurt.

After walking a few laps to cool down, to get the shaking to stop in his legs, Nathaniel starts in on the drills. He works seamlessly through them, counting breaths as he redefines his footwork, pushing himself through suicide runs until his lungs are in absolute agony and he collapses to his knees in the center of the court. His body heaves, and for a moment nausea sweeps through him, but he wipes off his face with his hands and pushes himself back to his feet. His legs are jelly, his knees collapsing with every step, but Nathaniel picks up his racquet and walks over to the stack of cones. He lines them up along the wall and upends the bucket of balls.

This is an old drill, the first one he ever learned. It seems so simple to him now, to scoop up a ball, pick a cone, and throw – to rebound the shot off the wall and send the cone rolling away. But he can still feel the heavy blows of a racquet against his body from when he fucked up in the beginning, from when he would aim and miss, when his angle was off or the throw not powerful enough. The next ball that leaves Nathaniel’s net sends the cone flying.

Someone pounds on the Plexiglas, and Nathaniel startles, spinning around to watch Kevin open up the door and step inside. Beyond Kevin, Nathaniel can make out Andrew standing in the middle of inner court, and behind Andrew stands the rest of the team, their eyes fixed on Nathaniel.

Any euphoria that had worked its way into Nathaniel begins to seep out as Kevin approaches, hands in his pockets and looking placid. The only thing that cues Nathaniel in to Kevin’s interest is his eyes, the way they sharpen when they move from the racquet in Nathaniel’s hands to the cones near the wall.

Nathaniel tenses. “How long have you been here?” he asks, his eyes flicking from Kevin momentarily to the rest of the Foxes. It’s just him and Kevin on the court, and the box feels suddenly so much smaller. It takes conscious effort for Nathaniel to relax his hold on the racquet, to breathe, _breathe_ , and not think of the item as a weapon to ward Kevin off, to make him stay back.

Kevin shrugs, coming to a stop a few feet away from Nathaniel. “Coach came in at six thirty. He called the rest of us to bring us down here to watch you. It’s about eight now.”

Nathaniel stiffens. The Foxes have been watching him for over an hour, it seems, and he never once noticed them. It’s terrifying, how absorbed he had become in the drills, but it isn’t a surprise. Exy is the only thing that lets Nathaniel exist as he is.

“Look, Nathaniel,” Kevin says, and that sharp focus is gone, replaced with a haunted look that throws Nathaniel months into the past, to a dark bedroom in the Nest, to a Kevin with a fresh cast and red eyes and alcohol on his breath. The ex-striker seems to gather himself for a moment, pulling in a deep lungful of air and letting it out slowly. Nathaniel already feels strung out, a trip wire waiting for a little pressure. Kevin tries again, taking a step forward and reaching out a hand. “I – we need to t –.” Kevin’s fingers connect with the racquet in Nathaniel’s hands, and he explodes.

He just barely manages to drop the racquet before he lunges at Kevin, hitting his stomach before swiping out his legs and dropping him hard to the floor. Nathaniel is on top of Kevin in a heartbeat, but he doesn’t pull back for another punch. He straddles Kevin’s body to hold him down, an arm braced on Kevin’s throat to restrict his breathing _just_ _enough_ to get his attention. The muted uproar from the Foxes is easy to drown out.

Nathaniel leans down closer to Kevin, invading his space until the yellow shoots in his otherwise green eyes are visible. “What do you want, now?” he asks, his voice deadly. Kevin should have known better, should have been watching him for signs. Kevin should have _known_ not to touch him.

Kevin grunts under the light pressure of Nathaniel’s arm on his windpipe, so Nathaniel moves his arm to Kevin’s chest and presses down harder, digging in his elbow for good measure. “For fuck’s sake, Nathaniel!” Even being pinned doesn’t keep Kevin from being huffy. “I just want to talk to you.”

“See, I thought so,” Nathaniel says, and a cruel smile – his father’s smile – spreads across his face. He wonders if Andrew feels so revolted every time the drugs force him to smile. “And maybe I would have listened. But you fucked up, Kevin. Do you know where you fucked up?” Oh, Nathaniel sounds too much like his father right now, that deadly purr pouring from between his bared teeth.

Kevin shakes his head, maybe realizing just how deep the shit he’s in is.

“Let me enlighten you, then.” Nathaniel’s weight bears down more on his elbow, causing a whine to pull from Kevin’s lips. The Foxes’ voices are louder, shouting as they enter the locked court. Nathaniel knows that he’s running out of time, needs to prove his point now. “You reached for me, Kevin, tried to take away the only barrier I had between us. All this could have been a simple no. We didn’t have to end up here.”

“Nathaniel, please.”

“Try again.”

Something flickers in Kevin’s eyes, something like annoyance and anger, but it shutters out almost instantly. “What will it take to make you listen to me?”

“That depends entirely on what you’re thinking about saying.”

“I’m sorr–”

“You said that already!” Nathaniel’s shout halts most of the approaching Foxes, sends an uncomfortable wave through them. He wants to pick Kevin up by the front of his shirt and slam him into the ground over and over, wants to pound at his face until it’s just as shattered as his hand, until Kevin feels all of the pain that Nathaniel ever had to feel in his years at Edgar Allan. “Three times, actually, and I’m not any more inclined to forgive you now than I was the first time.” He grits his teeth at how much he sounds like his father, but his cruel smile is still in place. “You want me to trust you again? It’s not going to happen. You want me to have your back? _Fuck_ you. I don’t give a _shit_ , Kevin.”

“I fucked up, okay?” Kevin’s voice rises with Nathaniel’s, and at this point Andrew is the only one left approaching them. “I fucked up, and I can’t change the past. I wish I could, Nathaniel. Fuck, I wish I could. But I can’t. This is all there is now. I don’t want to lose you again.”

Nathaniel blinks once, twice, slowly. He laughs in Kevin’s face, the bubble of it a tad psychotic even to his own ears. “Lose me?” he mimics, breathless, eyes gleaming. “Oh, no – no, no, Kevin, you’re mistaken.” He’s going to do this, here and now, to rip apart every good thing that Kevin has tried to build with this team. He’s going to break every leg that Kevin has tried to stand on in this group of misfits and fuck-ups. “No, Kevin, what really happened is that you _abandoned_ me. Do you see how that works? Can you see the difference? You left me there to _rot_. And you left Jean there, too. You tasted one small, small bite of pain, and you ran, after keeping me there for years, after convincing me that the pain was worth it. _I_ lost _you_. And now I don’t want you back. So you stay. Away. From me.”

“That’s enough,” Andrew says, and Nathaniel relaxes the fist he holds curled against his hip and shoves to his feet. For a moment he just stands there, staring down at Kevin, his body still trembling from his workout, his breaths leaving him in hot pants from the roil of emotions in his gut. Kevin stares back at him, eyes open and appearing to actually _see_ Nathaniel for the first time since his appearance at the Foxhole Court.

Nathaniel turns away before he decides to take a swing at Kevin anyway, Andrew’s threatening stance be damned. He glares the Foxes down as he shoves his way through them, pulling a knife on James when he tries to grab Nathaniel’s wrist. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarls, pressing the blade to the tender part of James’ thumb until the man backs off. And then he’s gone, storming away into the locker room for a chance to shower off, a chance to breathe and collect himself before he has to sit in on Wymack’s team meeting.

He slams a fist into a locker, loves the sound it makes, the violent pain against his fingers and the gory tear of flesh along his middle knuckle. He hits it again just to remind himself what it felt like, to remind himself that he’s the one acting out instead of being acted upon.

He knows it’s Andrew who enters the room when the door opens and nothing is said. Andrew’s presence is heavy, carrying a weight behind it no matter what. He’s someone solid, a support for the people he chooses to watch over, a fist in the face of those who threaten that.

Nathaniel doesn’t want Andrew to break the silence, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before those drugs urge him to make some remark. He wants to set the conversation before Andrew’s medication has a chance to ruin it. “Pick something else,” Nathaniel says, his fury at Kevin raising his voice – fury and fear. “You wouldn’t let me protest last night, so I’m doing it now. Pick something else. I’m not going to be responsible for Kevin.”

Andrew levels a look at Nathaniel and then breaks out into a smile that morphs into a laugh. It’s a crazy sound, one that reminds Nathaniel too much of his time with Riko, too much of the laugh he spit at Kevin, the one that reminds him of his father. But Nathaniel doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, just waits Andrew out. The laugh dies on a breath, an amputation that hangs in the air between them. Andrew isn’t even smiling anymore. “Oh, Nathaniel, you don’t have a choice in this. I’m giving you my protection, so I get to decide what I get for it.”

“And I already told you that I don’t want your protection,” Nathaniel says, words coming out of him dripping with the acid that constantly threatens to eat him alive. “You’re allowed to force one thing down my throat, not two.” Andrew rocks back just slightly at the words, and just the shock of seeing Andrew affected at all brings Nathaniel down a notch or two. He swallows, looks away. “Please,” he asks, his voice quieter.

Andrew scoffs, back to “normal” faster than Nathaniel. “I don’t like that word. Don’t say it again.”

Nathaniel looks back at Andrew, his brows pinching together. “Okay,” he says, drawn out on a slow exhale.

Andrew moves around the locker room, and Nathaniel watches wearily as he picks up a towel and drops it, kicks at the bench just to watch it move a couple of inches. “Tell me about your mother, then,” Andrew says, finally returning his attention to Nathaniel. “You don’t want to make sure Kevin gets back on his feet? This is the price for that. Tell me about your mother. Everything.”

Nathaniel chokes on his response, feels the words and the emotions catch in his throat and impair his breathing. He knows he has a choice now, but it doesn’t feel like much of one. It’s a heavy cost for protection he doesn’t think he needs.

But if Nathaniel isn’t going to run – and he can’t now, not after telling the nation that he’s going to play for the Foxes – he’s going to need… well, maybe not _friends_ , but allies, for sure. He can’t face down Riko alone, no matter how much he’s loathe to give his back to anyone. “Fine,” he says, turning away from Andrew, done with the conversation.

Not having a locker and thus no clothes to change into, Nathaniel heads straight to the showers. There’s a rack of crisply folded white towels on his way, and he snags one as he walks past. The row of shower stalls trips him up, and he stares at them for a minute, dumbstruck at the thought of privacy. He forces himself to move forward, to move into the nearest stall and shut the door behind him. The water echoes too loud in the enclosed space, but it’s… almost nice, not having to be worried about someone at his back, someone intent on doing him harm.

He rinses off, tipping his face up into the spray and letting it wash over him. The meeting technically doesn’t start for another hour, so he has time to just –. Something clatters to the floor behind Nathaniel, and he spins around so fast that he has to catch himself up against the wall to keep from falling. It’s just a bar of soap and a set of retreating footsteps. Still, several long moments pass before Nathaniel can move, can reach out and pick up the soap, ever-conscious in case the door opens and he finds himself in a vulnerable position.

Thoroughly spooked, Nathaniel washes quickly and dries off with the towel. He’s expecting the locker room to be empty when he walks back out with the towel wrapped around his waist, so the sight of Andrew leaning against the wall with his arms folded, as if impatiently waiting for him, stops him in his tracks.

“Why are you still here?” Nathaniel asks, caught between weary and unperturbed and not knowing what to do about those mixed emotions.

Andrew nods towards the bench. “You needed clean clothes and I knew if I just left them there you wouldn’t put them on.”

Nathaniel glances at the bench, too, and spots the folded pair of grey joggers and the black t-shirt. He looks again at Andrew, trying to gauge whether these are Andrew’s clothes or not, whether this is a joke and he’s the butt end of it. “Why?” he asks, still trying to feel Andrew out.

The man scoffs. “Not everything has a price, Nathaniel.”

“I know you don’t need me to remind you how many things do,” Nathaniel says, voice gone somber and quiet.

Andrew shakes his head and turns around. In the end, Nathaniel decides to just put the clothes on.

The sweatpants fit nice around the waist but are a few inches too short, exposing his ankles. It would make sense if they were Andrew’s, as Nathaniel had initially guessed. Nathaniel’s height is all in his legs, whereas Andrew seems to have more length to his torso and broad shoulders. It’s no surprise to Nathaniel, then, when the shirt doesn’t fit at all. It’s far too large in the shoulders and droops down Nathaniel’s collarbone, exposing scars. He tries to readjust it so that the collar isn’t threatening to stretch halfway down his chest, but then it just threatens to fall down his shoulders. He gives up and lets out a frustrated huff, slipping his shoes back on. When he straightens, he tosses his hands up just to let them fall back down and slap against his thighs.

“Your knife is on the bench.” At Andrew’s flat tone, Nathaniel looks around and sees the object on the other bench, all the way across the room. He goes for it, his steps rushed because he expects this to be a trick, too, expects Andrew to not want him armed. But Andrew stays by the door, and Nathaniel slips the knife into the pocket of Andrew’s sweatpants. “Let’s go face the music,” Andrew says, too cheerful to be real.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been 3 days since the last update, but to be fair this chapter has been written for like five months
> 
> because i... am an awful goddamn person

Nathaniel precedes Andrew into the lounge, and he catches the tail end of what’s being discussed among the team. His stomach immediately knots and twists when he realizes they’ve been talking about _him_ , assumedly the whole time he’s been cleaning up.

“– that _good_ ,” Dan says, staring aghast at Wymack.

It’s Matt who answers her. “Well, he’s been playing since he was eight, right? With the _Ravens_ ,” he says, as if Kevin isn’t standing in the room several feet behind him, as if Nathaniel is the only Raven player they’ve ever seen.

Jacob mumbles an agreement, something about speed and accuracy, and Matt turns to him, his eyes shining. Dan still has her eyes on Wymack, whose expression is unreadable. Only Kevin seems to notice Nathaniel’s presence, and even his eyes are trained behind Nathaniel on Andrew.

Seth, so unwisely ignorant of his surroundings, snorts. He directs his comment at Allison, frequently his only audience, when he says, “And here I thought he’d slept his way into Riko’s good graces.”

The room tilts, the players around Seth turning to him with furrowed brows and angry sets to their mouths. Raphael looks as if he already has a comment waiting, ready to tell Seth off. Nathaniel is beyond that. He bares his teeth and sees red as he moves straight into a reaction, running off of the instincts that he uses on court, the instincts that kept him par with the Raven backliners as only a high school freshman.

All he has to do is take two steps forward and grab the back of Seth’s shirt to spin him around, and then he’s able to land a punch on the striker’s nose. All Nathaniel can think is that he’s going to kill Seth, he’s going to gut him right here and watch his intestines spill all over the floor, and he’s going to revel in the heat of blood splashing on his shoes. Nathaniel ignores the crack of bone and the spurt of blood over his knuckles, because it’s not good enough, not what he wants. He reaches for his knife, full ready to keep his promise to the asshole.

Someone grabs Nathaniel around the waist and bodily lifts him away before he can get even half of his swing completed, but he still watches red bloom on Seth’s shirt, knows he cut him deep, hopes it’s bad enough that Seth has to spend time in a hospital. He struggles against the strong arms banded around him, pinning his knife arm to his side and leaving his other free. His nails dig into pale skin, trying to break free to get to Seth, to cut through the concerned swarm of Foxes and finish the job.

“Pocket it or lose it,” Andrew says in Nathaniel’s ear, and of _course_ it’s Andrew. He doesn’t even sound winded from the struggle of keeping Nathaniel in place. Nathaniel says nothing, trying to slash out with his pinned arm but getting nowhere. “I can stand here all night,” Andrew says again, a smile warping his voice. Nathaniel stops, the motion jerky, and he feels unsteady standing there with only Andrew supporting him. The room, which had heaved itself into an uproar, has gone boneyard silent as everyone looks to Seth and casts nervous glances at Nathaniel. He pockets the knife. “Good,” Andrew says, and Nathaniel grits his teeth at the shiver that runs down his spine. “If I let you go, are you going to kill him?”

“I want to.”

Andrew’s arms tighten in warning. The blood covering Nathaniel’s knuckles cracks as he clenches his fists. “Nathaniel,” Andrew sing-songs. “Are you going to kill him?”

The words are devastatingly heavy in the room filled with only Seth’s curses and Renee’s reassuring murmurs. Allison is forcing Seth’s head back while she tries to clot his nose with a piece of cloth; it must be difficult working around his moving mouth, judging from the sour expression on her face. Renee is looking at Seth’s abdomen, touching around the cut to gauge how deep it is. From the way it’s bleeding, Nathaniel would guess decently deep, but not deep enough for any real damage. A pity.

The only person in the room who doesn’t appear disturbed at all is Aaron, who, with his medical knowledge, probably should have been assisting Allison and Renee with Seth. Instead, Aaron is seated at the sofa typically occupied by Andrew’s group, his eyes steady on Nathaniel, on the way Andrew is holding him back. Aaron tips his head in a very brief nod, over so quickly that Nathaniel would have missed it if he had blinked. There are any number of things that nod could mean, but Nathaniel thinks it might just be a sign of solidarity.

Nathaniel can’t answer Andrew, because he can’t say “no.” If Andrew were to release him, Nathaniel would go in for the kill, would get rid of the threat. Seth is the only person that makes Nathaniel feel unsafe at the Foxhole Court. Andrew sets Nathaniel on edge, but he had a chance to hurt Nathaniel already and he didn’t take it.

Abby comes into the room a few moments later, looking first at Andrew and Nathaniel, but her gaze doesn’t linger there long. She moves to where she’s needed, and after assessing Seth’s condition, takes him out of the room. Andrew holds onto Nathaniel for a few seconds longer and then releases him.

Being free of Andrew doesn’t come with the usual deep breath of relief. Nathaniel’s skin doesn’t crawl with a desperation to be rubbed clean, and he honestly can’t tell the difference in his constriction between now and when Andrew was restraining him. All he knows is that he is less steady now, with Andrew a few feet away. That’s not a feeling that Nathaniel is used to, and it’s not a feeling that he likes.

“What the fuck, Nathaniel?” Wymack asks, turning now to the problem child in the room. Seth’s blood is on Allison’s shirt, Renee’s hands, Nathaniel’s knuckles, but it’s the only part of him still here.

Nathaniel blinks at the coach – _his_ coach. “Don’t give me that,” he says, still in the same position Andrew left him. He doesn’t trust himself to move. “You said to give you forewarning if I was going to cut up one of your players again. I warned you. It’s not my fault he continues to be unable to shut his fucking mouth. It’s not my fault that I was faster than you.”

“Why the _fuck_ did you go for your knife?” Allison asks, her voice shaking. Nathaniel wonders how much of that is fear and how much is anger. Renee’s hand on her arm looks more like support than an effort to hold her back.

“Because,” Nathaniel says, “when my father taught me to fight, he skipped fists and went straight to the blade. Because when I’m backed into a corner, or when someone comes at me, it’s either me or them, and the knife at least lets me fight for it.”

“But you hit him,” Renee says, sounding as “holier than thou” as always. “You punched him before you went for your knife.”

At that, Nathaniel grins, and it’s bloodthirsty and painful. “I don’t see why you’re complaining,” he says, “when it’s the only reason that Seth is alive.” It was a mistake. Nathaniel should have cut him first and been done with it. He never should have punched him, but the action is engrained in Nathaniel’s muscles after a lifetime at Evermore, to incapacitate first before eviscerating.

Now they’re going to have to suffer with Seth for that much longer, until Nathaniel can properly back up an attack as self-defense.

“At some point,” Wymack says, staring at Nathaniel with something painful in his eyes, something that makes Nathaniel look away, “you’re going to learn that Seth has a mouth on him, but he lashes out because he’s afraid.”

“Really?” Nathaniel snaps, shifting his position to fix his posture, to fortify himself, “because all I get from him is jealousy and an inherent need to be an asshole.”

“So what?” Allison demands, pulling her arm away from Renee’s hand to take a challenging step towards Nathaniel. “It’s not like he came at you waving a gun in your face. He said some bullshit; none of us took him seriously. You overreacted and you know it, so just fucking admit it.” For a split second, her eyes move past Nathaniel to a spot behind him, tracking Andrew as he leaves Nathaniel stranded and rejoins his group.

Nathaniel’s stomach rolls. He’s been backed skillfully into a corner, a place where he either gives up part of himself, opening a wound to infection, or he refuses to answer and “proves” Allison’s point. He doesn’t owe the Foxes anything. They haven’t earned any truths from him. But speaking might grant him… something. Some space, some respect, a few supporters so that he’s not fighting this battle alone.

He gives a crooked half smile to hide the taste of bile suddenly coating the back of his tongue. “Seth claimed that I slept my way to Riko’s side.” He pauses, and it feels dramatic even to him, a held breath before a monologue in a cheap movie, but he needs the inhale to settle his stomach. “Let me ask you this. As someone who was raped by the majority of the men on the Ravens’ rather large team, how am I supposed to respond to that? Especially when he’s implying that I wanted it. Hm?” Allison flinches like she’s been slapped, and the other Foxes have similar responses.

“Nathaniel –”

“No.” He stops whatever Dan is about to say with a cut of his hand. “I don’t care.” The familiar need to run rises up and spreads through him like the pinpricks of a sleepy limb. It would hurt, but it has to happen. He turns around, ready to leave them all behind for a few hours at least, to get some space and sort out his head. Jean would understand him. Nathaniel misses his crutch.

“Stop,” Wymack says, and the order is enough of a bark to halt Nathaniel’s motions. “We’re moving past this conversation. Everybody – sit your asses down and leave Nathaniel alone. We’ve got bigger problems right now, specifically the ones that were caused yesterday morning on Kathy Ferdinand’s show.”

And Nathaniel’s at the core of both of those problems. Bully for him.

He turns back to face the room, watching as everyone shuffles for a seat. Nathaniel doesn’t know where he fits into the mix, never having sat down in the lounge before. He resigns himself to standing until Andrew catches his eye and crooks his finger.

His adrenaline fails him halfway to the sofa, but Nathaniel makes his shaking legs keep moving until he perches himself on the armrest next to Andrew. His borrowed shirt slips off his shoulder, and Nathaniel’s fingers are shaking too badly to fix it. He clenches his hands into his thighs instead and impatiently meets Wymack’s pointed look.

“Do you know how much chaos your little stunt has caused me?” Wymack asks. “I’ve been awake since four taking calls from the ERC, from the board of directors here at Palmetto, and from other universities both in and out of our district looking to trade their best fucking players for the two of you.”

Lack of adrenaline isn’t going to keep Nathaniel’s mouth from running. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Nathaniel says, “if I had only taken into consideration how much trouble this would cause you, I would have left Kevin helpless on stage to be beaten down by Riko and stolen back to Edgar Allan from right under your nose.”

“Cut the sarcasm, ki– Nathaniel. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have done it, I’m just saying that I don’t have a leg to stand on because neither of you are signed yet. You do realize that, right? Jesus,” Wymack blows out, dropping his chin against his chest and shaking his head. “Just… stop trying to rip my throat out for a moment, will you? Both of you are signing contracts before you leave this building today.”

Wymack pushes the television to the edge of the entertainment center so that he can sit down beside it. He folds his arms across his chest, tribal flame tattoos rolling on his skin – as if they’ve come alive – as he situates himself. “Now, what kind of retribution can we be expecting from Riko?”

“For who?” Nathaniel asks. “You can’t count our actions as the same.”

After a moment spent glancing back and forth between the two of them, Wymack gestures and gruffly says, “Start with Kevin.”

Nathaniel had thought so, had banked on it, even. He has his answer ready to go when Kevin speaks up.

“Riko’s going to make sure that I’m not successful on the court,” Kevin says.

“Why?”

Nathaniel turns to Jacob before Kevin can. “Because Kevin is a Moriyama possession. He’s not allowed to be successful without them.”

Raphael shakes his head. “I don’t understand that.”

“Be grateful,” Nathaniel snaps. “You don’t want to understand it.”

The senior striker raises his hands in a weary gesture. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Can you calm the fuck down for one fucking moment?” Wymack asks, clearly more exasperated than angry, but Nathaniel snaps his mouth shut anyway. “Thank you. Now, Kevin, keep talking.”

Kevin looks at Andrew, who simply stares back at him. Or maybe not – Neil can’t tell since Andrew’s back is to him, and on his medications, who knows how intent Andrew’s focus is right now. Finally, Kevin looks back at Wymack and says, “All I know is that Riko won’t risk injuring me again. But he’s not short on creativity when it comes to punishments.”

Nathaniel full-body flinches and has to dig his fingers into the armrest below his thigh to keep from curling in on himself. He knows all too well how creative Riko can be, has the scars to prove it – both mental and physical.

“Stop that,” Andrew says. Nathaniel looks up to find him staring, focus perfect and direct. The flat expression only lasts for a moment before a smile takes over. “Kevin’s supposed to be the resident coward. We don’t need another.”

Someone clears their throat, and Nathaniel looks away from the way Andrew’s smile warps his expression.

“Well, aside from benching you with an injury, what could he do to keep you from succeeding?” Dan asks, pragmatic and obviously ready to start solving her team’s problems.

Nathaniel snorts, his amusement at her hope and spirit shaking him free from his fear of the past. “Do you want a list of ideas? I could take the time to alphabetize them for you. That way, when ‘kill a teammate’ happens, you can find it easier and remember that I was right.”

“Oooh, is someone going to die?” Nicky asks. “I volunteer Seth.”

The timing of that comment probably isn’t appreciated, since all of the upperclassmen frown at Nicky.

“Take that back, bitch,” Allison says, venomous once more.

Nicky hides behind Aaron, who simply shrugs the pest’s hands off of his shoulders.

Dan’s gaze sharpens on Nathaniel, ignoring the infantile exchanges of her team. “You’re not kidding.”

“No,” Nathaniel says. “Riko isn’t playing games. He’s going to come at you, and when he does, it will be big, flashy, and an attempt to get the whole team disqualified.”

Matt swears colorfully while the others mutter amongst themselves under their breath. Wymack gives them a full minute before he redirects their attention right to where Nathaniel doesn’t want it. “And what about you? What sort of backlash should we be preparing for?”

Nathaniel sighs. He knows the answer, sees it rather simply, but he doesn’t think the others will. “Normally, I would say that they would try to take me back. Buy me from Palmetto, physically kidnap me – or have my father’s people kidnap me.” Beside him, Andrew stirs, stiffens, and fiddles with his left armband. Nathaniel watches to make sure Andrew doesn’t draw a knife, and then keeps going. “Because I belong to them. I… have value. _Had_ value.”

“But…?” Wymack urges.

“But Nathaniel is supposed to be dead,” Kevin supplies. “Riko must have… changed his mind about Nathaniel’s value or something, decided that Nathaniel would serve better as a death threat. Riko doesn’t like people fucking with what he wants. He wanted Nathaniel dead, and he’s not. Because of us.”

Nathaniel makes a noise of agreement, anything to keep from speaking. Oh yes, Riko definitely wants him dead, definitely changed his mind. But Nathaniel isn’t certain that Riko wouldn’t take him back. A fit of rage… well, it’s not the most steadfast way to make decisions. “The easiest thing for Riko to do,” Nathaniel says, and it’s not a lie, “would be to send someone to kill me.”

Allison flicks her fingers. “So the rest of us should be safe then, yeah?” Renee says her name, quietly. Allison ignores her. “You said Riko might kill one of us to disqualify us, to drop our numbers. Well, it seems to me that if he killed you, he’d be, well, _killing_ two birds with one stone.”

The knife is out of Andrew’s armband with a flash of black and silver. “No one is touching Nathaniel. Not even you, little Princess.” His smile is a horrible thing, but Nathaniel feels…. Fuck him, he feels safer than he has in a damn long time. Just the thought – whimsical and evasive as it is – of never being touched again is so, so relieving. To never again have to deal with unwanted hands roaming his skin would be too soon. And Andrew is not only promising him that, he seems to be guaranteeing it with his life, threatening his own teammates if need be.

“Are you really threatening me?” Allison asks, a cool look of indifference on her face. “You’re willing to hurt your team to keep a huge threat like him alive?”

Andrew’s smile widens. “Who said anything about hurting you?” His look promises death, a quick one if he’s feeling merciful.

“You _bastard._ ” Allison is off of the sofa and onto her feet in a heartbeat. Renee is quick to rise, too, positioned to intervene.

Nathaniel beats Andrew to the punch and stands up first. He doesn’t have to take a step towards her – his knife, dirty with Seth’s blood, stops her short. “Just because Seth is out of the room doesn’t mean you have to take his place. Sit down and shut the fuck up. I’ll remind you right now that the only reason I’ve been here this long is because of your coach, because he refused to let me leave and your captain and the rest of you seemed to agree with him that it was the best course of action.”

“Not to agree with Allison,” Raphael says, “but I don’t think that’s fair, given what we know now versus then.”

Oh, how Nathaniel had been foolish to place any trust in these people, to let them have even a scrap of his back. “Considering I showed up on your doorstep seconds away from death, considering you knew immediately who had left me in that condition, I think you knew plenty at the time to be able to make a wiser decision than the one you did.”

“Okay, okay, knives away, right now,” Wymack barks. “All of you, sit down and cool it. No one is dying, today or ever, and I am not allowing some rat bastard like Riko tear my team apart. Knives _away_.”

Nathaniel pockets his knife, but he waits for Renee to ease Allison back down before he perches himself on the armrest of the sofa once more.

Wymack runs a hand down his face. “You’re all going to see Betsy next week, and no arguments. Does anyone have any ideas of how to prepare for Riko’s inevitable attack?” Allison’s mouth opens. “ _Aside from_ giving Nathaniel up to him.” She glares, but her mouth closes. The rest of the room remains silent. “Alright then, you useless twits. If anyone comes up with _anything_ , I want to know immediately. In the meantime, enjoy the rest of your Sunday, and I’ll see you bright and early Monday morning. Kevin and Nathaniel, stay put. The rest of you, get the fuck out of my face.”

Nathaniel is only too happy to see his new teammates file out of the lounge, leaving Andrew at his back as a barrier between him and Kevin’s anxiety. Something that has been uneasy in his chest for the longest time settles down, leaving Nathaniel to stew over what that means while he’s herded into Wymack’s office to officially make him a Fox.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are just being treated, aren't you?
> 
> This chapter just fucking zooms by but there's a lot here that's really important

Two days after Nathaniel signs the paperwork that will officially make him a Fox come June, Andrew takes him up to the roof. They’re freshly returned from practice, their hair still damp from showering, and they leave the rest of the team behind on the third floor. Nathaniel hadn’t even known that the stairs went all the way up to the roof until that’s where they appeared.

Nathaniel says nothing, just leaves his hands in his pockets and follows Andrew to the edge of the roof. The lack of hostility between them lately has been… odd, but not bad. It’s reassuring to Nathaniel that he’s got at least one person at his back.

“Why are we up here?” Nathaniel asks, leaning over the edge of the roof to stare straight down. It’s nothing but concrete at the bottom. A fall like this would probably kill him, but it wouldn’t be guaranteed. He hasn’t been tempted to kill himself in a long time, anyway.

“So that you can tell me a story. I assumed you didn’t want the rest of the busybodies to hear it.” Andrew pulls a rumpled pack of cigarettes out of his front pocket and lowers himself to sit on the ledge. “If I was wrong, we can always call a group meeting. I’m sure they would love to be enlightened further about their darling little Nathaniel.”

Eyes narrowed, Nathaniel sits down beside Andrew and watches as he lights up a cigarette. After a moment, Andrew passes it over and tips out another for himself. “You don’t have to be an ass about it,” Nathaniel says, gaze turning out to the expanse of campus once more as he inhales the burning tobacco.

“And here I thought I was being rather gracious,” Andrew says. “Six feet one way and half-a-dozen the other, I guess.” He grins and puts his cigarette to his lips, dragging long and slow and then letting the smoke out in a rush. “Time for you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

Nathaniel frowns, but he knows there’s no getting out of this. Andrew’s protection… well, it appears to extend far beyond what Nathaniel had originally interpreted it as being. That Andrew backed him in front of the Foxes two days ago proves as much. And Nathaniel isn’t stupid enough to think that he doesn’t need the support, because he definitely, desperately does. Protection from Riko is just a bonus, at this point. That, and he chose this. He could have stuck with Kevin, but Nathaniel decided that this was better. He still doesn’t regret that choice.

Finding a way to start the story, though… that’s a challenge in itself. To get all of the information in, Nathaniel decides that he better start with the basics.

“The Moriyama family division of the first and second sons extends to the people who work for them,” Nathaniel says, keeping his cigarette close to his face in the hopes that the smoke will keep him steady, will prevent him from breaking down in the middle of what he needs to say. “I’m a first and only son, so it was and probably still is expected that I’ll take over from my father once he dies. Or once Kengo dies. I’ll be the Butcher for Ichiro the way my father is for Kengo.”

Nathaniel opens his mouth to keep going, but he pauses when Andrew moves, turning his body so that he’s angled more towards Nathaniel instead of staring off over campus at the horizon. The part of Nathaniel that still hates Andrew’s medicated mental state is uncomfortable with the attention, but another, newer part of Nathaniel is glad that Andrew is paying attention. He doesn’t want to have to repeat this information.

“The difference in age between my father and Kengo, and Ichiro and myself, meant that I started training early, holding a knife as soon as I could walk. They needed me to be ready whenever Ichiro needed me. There’s frequently a… a changing of the guards, so to speak, when the head Moriyama dies and is replaced. Lola taught me most of the time, since my father couldn’t be bothered with me, and although she was a cruel teacher, getting joy out of cutting me or watching me cut myself, she was better than my father would have been. I know that.”

Nathaniel catches Andrew’s confusion at the mention of Lola, a name he doesn’t recognize, but Nathaniel chooses not to elaborate. He hopes that Andrew never knows.

“But my father fucked up a hit, and he ended up owing Kengo money that he didn’t have in order to make up for it. Tetsuji heard about what was going on, because he’s kept in the loop even though he doesn’t have any sway in the business. So Tetsuji offered to buy me from my father for the amount he owed Kengo. Since I would end up playing for the Ravens, the stipulation was that I had to be excellent at Exy. I was given a trial period of three days where I played with Riko and Kevin. I thought they were just games, that we were just supposed to be having fun together. At the end of the third day, Tetsuji was to decide whether he wanted me. My mother… she knew my father’s temper better than anyone. If I didn’t get chosen, there was a good chance that my father would have killed me. So she took me and ran.”

Here Nathaniel pauses, dragging on the cigarette in order to keep it burning. He remembers not wanting to go with his mother right away. He had been having so much fun with his new friends, kids who loved Exy just as much as he did. He didn’t want to leave that behind. But she forced him into their car and buckled him in the front so that she could keep an eye on him, so that he wouldn’t do something stupid like try to jump out of a moving vehicle. “I was so… angry with her,” Nathaniel says, bitterness cutting through the evening air. “I screamed at her to turn around, to take me back. All I wanted to do was play Exy. But she just smacked me and kept driving, told me that I didn’t know what I was talking about. I didn’t then, she was right. But I do now, and I wish that she wouldn’t have done it. Even if I hadn’t made it onto the team, death would have been –”

“Don’t,” Andrew says, and pretends like he didn’t say it when Nathaniel looks at him.

Nathaniel doesn’t know what to say to a comment that may not have even happened, so he just keeps telling the story. “We got as far as Ohio before my father’s people caught up to us. Mom couldn’t speed, trying not to draw attention to herself, but there were so many cops that my father and the Moriyamas had bought that they didn’t need to worry about it. Romero shot my mother through the driver’s side window, and we swerved hard and ended upside down in a flooded ditch. I shouldn’t have been in the front seat. I slipped partially from the seatbelt and ended up face-down in the water.” Nathaniel says it as matter-of-fact as he can, but he’s reliving the moment, the spray of his mother’s blood and bits of brain matter against his face, the jerk of the car to the right and then the left, the cut of the seatbelt into his neck, the deafening crunch of their car folding in on itself.

He can still taste the dirty brine of the stagnant water, his mother’s blood saturated and seeping into his mouth. Every time he inhales, he can feel the water rattling in his lungs, the desperate burn for air, his body thrashing against the lack of oxygen.

“Lola dragged me out and beat the water from my lungs. Then she left me in the ditch coughing and retching while she and Romero set the car on fire.” Suddenly disgusted by the smoke and the heat of his cigarette, Nathaniel throws it away, over the edge of the roof. “The smell was… I can’t even describe how awful it was. Rubber and plastic and… and meat and hair.” It takes almost too much self-control for Nathaniel to keep himself from retching.

There’s nothing left of the story to tell, as far as Nathaniel’s mother is concerned, but Andrew isn’t saying anything. Thinking that Andrew just needs time to process, Nathaniel sits and waits, trying not to get dragged back into that ditch further than he already is.

“What happened when you got back?”

Nathaniel looks at Andrew, who is simply watching him. Andrew’s cigarette is gone, too, probably smoked to the filter a while ago. Something like interest might be swimming in Andrew’s eyes, but it could just be a trick of the falling light.

“Someone needed to be punished,” Nathaniel says, his focus flickering back and forth between Andrew’s eyes, “but Mom was dead, so they punished me for going along with her.” Nathaniel wants that to be enough to satisfy Andrew. If he stops now, maybe he won’t completely break down tonight, maybe he won’t wake up sweating and drowning and cause Jacob another sleepless night. But Andrew raises his eyebrows in a clear show that he wants Nathaniel to continue.

Nathaniel thinks that he could say no and Andrew wouldn’t hold it against him, would drop the topic for now. But Andrew is curious, probably against his best interest, and Nathaniel knows that this conversation would be brought up again if he stopped it short tonight.

Reliving it in his nightmares is bad enough. Telling Andrew just this once is bad enough. He wouldn’t be able to make it through a second time.

“They made an example of me, Tetsuji and my father. They made an example of me in front of the younger Ravens, in front of my father’s inner circle and quite a few new members of the Moriyamas. They said, ‘This is what happens when you disobey. This is what happens when you think you can get away with something.’ I…. My father tied my wrists to an exposed pipe against the wall in the Evermore showers, and then he whipped my back with his belt until I bled.”

“Show me,” Andrew says without any hesitation. It shocks Nathaniel’s rising panic attack into submission.

Nathaniel can’t even work his throat to swallow, let alone voice a denial, so he does what he’s been conditioned to do his whole life – what he’s fought against his whole life – and gives in. He takes off his shirt and turns his back to Andrew.

And Andrew says… nothing.

“I was ten,” Nathaniel supplies, because he can’t fucking stand the silence for one more damn minute. He’s bared his soul to Andrew, told a secret that not even Jean knows the full truth of, and all that’s meeting him is silence.

It was a mistake. Andrew doesn’t care about anything, not when he’s on his medication, not when he physically cannot be serious for any length of time due to the drugs fucking with his head and making him some sick twisted version of happy. Nathaniel shouldn’t have bartered for this. He should have accepted his fate of sticking around Kevin and suffered through it. Better yet, he should have stabbed Andrew in the god damn throat for forcing him into a deal he never wanted to make, and he should have left Palmetto far behind that day. Why he ever thought that –

“Yes or no?” Andrew asks, the words coming out like they’re fighting, as if Andrew isn’t sure if he really wants to say them.

Nathaniel blows out a yes between clenched teeth.

Fingertips ghost over Nathaniel’s shoulder blades and down his spine, tracing the worst of the scars. The touch is so light that Nathaniel considers for a moment that it’s not real, that all of this has just been one long fucked up nightmare, but the touch becomes more firm after a moment, gaining confidence, and Nathaniel clenches his teeth and bears it until he feels like he’s going to crawl out of his own skin. He pulls away, scooting inches away from Andrew and replacing his shirt.

Andrew is still facing Nathaniel when he turns around, his outstretched hand hanging in the air as if trying to convince Nathaniel to come back. The gesture only lasts a moment before Andrew’s hand drops back into his lap and rests limply against his knee.

“He’s never touching you again,” Andrew says, vindication in every inch of his tone.

Nathaniel blinks, trying to keep his shock and… whatever the fuck _that_ feeling is – to himself. “You can’t promise me that,” Nathaniel says, shaking off that feeling, the one he’s starting to recognize but can’t put a name to, the one that shows up when Andrew does something unexpected, says something that makes Nathaniel question whether or not he knows Andrew at all. “When the Moriyamas send someone after me, it’s going to be my father.”

“Let them,” Andrew says, pulling out his pack of cigarettes once more and shaking another loose. “I will stand in his way. He’s not touching you.”

The complete nonchalance floors Nathaniel. Andrew doesn’t understand the danger that would put him in, trying to stand in between Nathan and Nathaniel. Andrew would be slaughtered. Against Riko, yes, Andrew would stand a chance – there’s a reason Andrew was able to get Kevin and Nathaniel out of that awful situation after Kathy Ferdinand’s show – but not against Nathaniel’s father.

It would be the last mistake Andrew ever made.

And honestly? Fuck him. Nathaniel can tell when someone isn’t going to listen to him, and swaying Andrew is like trying to convince a mountain that it needs to move. Nathaniel will watch Andrew die, and he won’t live long enough afterwards to be able to regret it.

Nathaniel returns his gaze to the lazy sprawl of the campus below them. In a little more than six months, Nathaniel will be a student here, will be playing for the Foxes and be forced to maintain a decent GPA to stay on the team. He will be one of many, a small part in a large whole, and that both thrills him and terrifies him. He’s so used to just being one-fourth of a well-oiled machine that the prospect of becoming a college student feels like getting lost in the fog.

Andrew smokes through half of his cigarette in silence before he speaks again. “There’s a regional winter banquet that we’re required to attend. It’s on Friday. Nicky and Allison are already working on finding you a suit.”

Nathaniel waits for the punch line, and he feels like he’s falling from the roof when Andrew just keeps smoking his cigarette. “What the fuck? You’re just telling me now? That’s three days away. And we both know what happened the last time I went along on a Fox excursion,” Nathaniel says.

“You’re going to panic whether you stay or go,” Andrew says, an awful smile curving half of his mouth. “I can’t do anything if I’m in Florida and you’re here.”

Without a proper argument against that, and tired of talking to Andrew in general, Nathaniel finds himself standing and brushing off his jeans.

He leaves a laughing Andrew behind him on the roof.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter i currently have written, but i'm pretty sure i know what i want from the next chapter so bear with me. we're probably going back to posting once per month, so just a head's up on that. i love all of you and i definitely don't deserve readers like you guys <3 you inspire me every day
> 
> ALSO!!!! TWs for this chap are the same ones for chapter 11 in TRK. you've been warned. if you've read tfc and you're still in the fandom, you can handle this, I just want y'all to be prepared

The suit is grey. In a sea of black jackets and white dress shirts, Nathaniel’s suit is grey. Thanks to Nathaniel’s appearance on Kathy’s show nearly a week ago, it would have been impossible for him to blend in with the crowd and go unnoticed, but he would have liked to try. The suit makes it impossible.

“You look great, don’t worry,” Nicky tells him, mistaking Nathaniel’s anxiety for something that he doesn’t care about at all.

Allison scoffs. “Of course he looks great. Although, the shoulders really could be taken in a bit more. It’s difficult to get a well-fitted bespoke suit if there isn’t a physical person to measure.”

Bespoke. Nathaniel had thought that the suit fit too well to be something off the rack, and the material is soft and light, airy in a way that lets him know that he could wear it all night and not get uncomfortably warm. But if he wasn’t there, then they must have had measurements to go by.

Nathaniel’s eyes slot to Andrew, who is standing bored against the edge of the court with an irate Kevin at his side. Andrew catches Nathaniel’s eye and gives him a two-finger salute. Kevin follows Andrew’s stare and frowns before walking over.

Well. Fuck.

“You can’t hide against the wall all night,” Kevin says, as if he has any right to tell Nathaniel what to do. Nathaniel’s surprised Kevin is even bothering approaching him, after their last argument. But having Andrew at his back and being in a room full of strangers has probably set Kevin’s mind at ease and returned his spine to him.

“Watch me,” Nathaniel retorts, slipping his hands into his pockets and palming his knife. He made it through dinner mostly invisible. The team sitting across from the Foxes had been docile and well-mannered for the most part, less a few rude looks at Dan and some unnecessary fawning over Kevin. Only one person had acknowledged Nathaniel past a cursory glance, and that was an ambitious striker who just said, “Riko’s going to destroy you on the court. If you ever get the chance to play against him.”

“Let him try,” Nathaniel said, and the conversation had dropped there.

But now Kevin’s in his face trying to force Nathaniel into visibility, and he’s a half-step from pushing Nathaniel too far. “Stop being petulant. There are some people I want you to meet.”

“Not interested.”

Andrew grins around Kevin’s shoulder. “That’s what I told him. Is he pouting?” Kevin’s scowl only deepens, thick dark brows pulling together over storm-green eyes. “Poor, poor Kevin. It must be so hard, learning how to deal with…” Andrew trails off, eyes catching on something or someone over Nathaniel’s shoulder. But when Nathaniel tries to follow his gaze, all he sees is a sea of Exy players dancing and mingling in nice clothes. “…rejection,” Andrew finishes, smile too broad now when he refocuses on Kevin.

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so.” Andrew laughs and darts around the two of them. He trails his fingers over Nathaniel’s shoulder. “Watch Kevin,” he says, right before diving headfirst into the crowd.

Nathaniel tries to keep track of him, but it’s too easy to lose a five-foot-nothing man in a throng of people five-five and over. Nathaniel blinks, and Andrew is gone.

Kevin’s fingers snap in front of Nathaniel’s face just as the door far across the court from them opens and swings closed with an echoing bang. A grossly uncomfortable ball of lead drops in the pit of Nathaniel’s stomach.

“Nathaniel, for fuck’s sake, listen to me.”

Now who’s being petulant?

Nathaniel’s sucks his lower lip between his teeth and chews on it. “Andrew…”

“Is an adult,” Kevin says, an annoying combination of irritated and exasperated and not even a little concerned, “and he can handle himself just fine. Now come on.” Kevin doesn’t seem to mind at all that Andrew just up and ditched them. He doesn’t seem to think that Andrew’s distraction mid-sentence is alarming, or the way his eyes glazed over and then hyper-focused is something to be concerned about. If anything, Kevin seems perfectly fine with Andrew’s disappearance, as if he’s happy for a break from his angry shadow.

Without Riko in the room, Kevin doesn’t need a spine – just a PR smile and some manners.

But Nathaniel isn’t so easily settled. He trusts his instincts, and this whole situation feels like the deafening silence before a mile-wide tornado rips apart an unsuspecting town.

“No, fuck you. I’m going to look for him.”

Kevin catches Nathaniel’s forearm and squeezes, but Nathaniel already has his knife through Kevin’s sleeve and touching skin. “We already had this discussion, Kevin. Do you want another career-stopping injury? Let me go, and don’t ever touch me again.”

Intelligently, Kevin releases him, a familiar wisp of fear tinging his eyes.

Nathaniel doesn’t have time for this. He shoves his way through the crowd, bee-lining for the door he noticed earlier, only to freeze in his tracks, grit his teeth, and turn around.

Finding Aaron on the dancefloor is impossible, but finding Nicky is far easier, and where Nicky is, Aaron usually isn’t far.

“Watch Kevin for me,” Nathaniel says, raising his voice above the music.

Aaron frowns. “Why are you watching him in the first place? Where’s Andrew?”

Nathaniel shakes his head. “Not sure.”

It’s so odd to Nathaniel that anyone could struggle telling Andrew and Aaron apart. Even the way Aaron’s eyes narrow in thought is different from Andrew. “Nicky,” Aaron says, “watch Kevin.” He looks at Nathaniel expectantly, and honestly Nathaniel really doesn’t care if Aaron tags along. All he cares about is the uneasy roil in his gut and the skittering way his pulse jumps in his fingers.

He turns and pushes through the dancing, happy bodies, Aaron on his heels.

On the other side of the door is emptiness and silence, and it’s disorienting for a full heartbeat before Nathaniel collects himself. They’re in a hallway, probably something designed as a fire escape. It’s a stupid place to disappear into, being bottlenecked most likely out into the parking lot. There’s no room for privacy here, no place for Andrew to vanish, unless Nathaniel’s instincts are wrong, unless all Andrew wanted was a break from Kevin and a quick cigarette.

 _No_.

Nathaniel knows he’s right.

He takes off at a sprint, Aaron shouting after him, but ultimately his slapping footsteps join Nathaniel’s in running down the corridor. They have to be halfway out when Nathaniel passes a staircase. He pivots and stops his momentum quickly, years of playing defense keeping him from getting dizzy, and then he starts up the stairs.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Aaron shouts after him, winded but not terribly. Nathaniel doesn’t have the time to spare for an answer. He runs up the stairs, taking them two and sometimes three at a time. Aaron is much slower.

The stairs plateau and Nathaniel suddenly knows where he is. It’s a strange stadium, but all of them are set up mostly the same. If he were to take the short hallway expanding on his left, he’d find himself in the stands. But if he keeps going forward, towards the door that’s sitting just slightly ajar…

Fuck.

The VIP boxes.

“Slow the fuck down,” Aaron shouts after him, but Nathaniel is running again.

All of these stairs are killing him. His thighs are shaking, and not for the first time he’s pissed at the lack of exercising he’s been able to do lately. Stairs should be nothing, but his thighs have weakened and his lungs are straining. Nathaniel doesn’t care; he pushes past the pain the way he always has.

The stairs end at the second flight, postmarked by a solid door with a brass plate labeling it as VIP Box 2. He can hear Andrew laughing manically through the door, high-pitched and grating on Nathaniel’s ears. It’s too much to hope that the door is unlocked, but Nathaniel tries the knob anyway. The lead in his stomach plummets through him.

Kicking in the door is going to hurt like a bitch, but he doesn’t have the time or the tools to pick the lock. Aaron reaches the top of the stairs at the same time Nathaniel takes a step back and slams his foot firmly into the door, just shy of the knob. Something cracks, and Nathaniel can’t tell if it’s his leg or the door, but he kicks again, and on the third time he stumbles into the room while the door swings wide and slams into the wall, knob clattering to the floor.

Andrew’s laughter is louder now with the barrier out of the way, a sound at odds with what Nathaniel is seeing.

He knows what he’s looking at – all of the blood, the man holding Andrew down, the white-knuckled grip Andrew has on the armrest of the sofa – but it’s impossible for Nathaniel to comprehend it all at once, to acknowledge what’s happening when this is the last thing he was expecting to find. So Nathaniel doesn’t bother trying to make sense of it; he’s always been better at reacting than thinking.

His knife is in his hand and flicked open halfway between one step and the next. The man takes a swing at him, dropping his grip on Andrew and letting him slump against the sofa cushions. But Nathaniel is so much faster. Bloody knuckles still graze his cheek, hard enough to leave a bruise but not hard enough for any real damage. For the most part, Nathaniel steps inside of the punch and lifts his knife. The blade slides in easy just below the Adam’s apple, and with a sharp jerk, Nathaniel pulls it through the side of his neck.

Blood sprays. Nathaniel feels it on his face, his neck, his arms. He watches it pour down the man’s throat as he stumbles backwards and falls, choking to death on his own blood. It’s a slow death, drowning, but Nathaniel still wishes he could have hurt him more.

“Oh, what happened?” Andrew asks, his laughter abruptly halting. His voice is hoarse. He tries to sit up and stops halfway to his elbow. “That’s not fun.” For a moment, he pulls a face that reminds Nathaniel horrifically of a child being denied a favorite toy, but then Andrew vomits over the edge of the sofa, his shoulders shaking as he heaves.

“Andrew?” Aaron’s voice is so full of confusion and terror that Nathaniel has to look over his shoulder to check that it’s actually him.

The effect that one word has on Andrew is shattering.

Andrew’s head snaps up, eyes landing immediately on his twin. “Aaron.” Andrew holds out a hand, looks at the blood on it, and then drops it. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, eyes scanning Aaron for blood, for an injury, for anything at all.

Aaron shakes his head, slow at first but then faster when Andrew looks like he’s going to move towards him. “No, no, Andrew he didn’t… he didn’t even touch me.” Uncertain hazel eyes lock with Nathaniel’s, and Nathaniel nods his head just slightly, a direction for Aaron to go. “I’ll – I’m going to go get Coach.” And then he’s gone.

Nathaniel refuses to feel like an intruder standing in the muted silence left in Aaron’s wake.

He approaches Andrew slowly, arms hanging limp at his sides. “Andrew? Can I touch you?” He’s thinking he could at least take off his suit jacket and cover Andrew up, since no doubt Wymack and other team members are going to come barreling in here at any moment.

“Why are you here?” Andrew asks, and it doesn’t sound vicious or accusing, just confused. His eyes slowly drag across the room to the space Nathaniel is occupying, and then down to the bloody knife dangling in his grasp, and then back up to Nathaniel’s face. For a while, the only sound in the room is the man choking on his blood, nails scraping at the floor. He’ll be dead by the time Aaron returns with Wymack. “Did you kill him?”

“It’s in the process,” Nathaniel says with a side-eye to the booted foot kicking against the floor as if desperate for traction. The question of who the man is brands Nathaniel’s tongue, but he’s not going to ask. He takes another step forward, trying to get Andrew to really focus on him. He knows it’s easier to hide away and bury the pain, but it’s better to face it. Wounds heal faster when they’re acknowledged and treated. “Can I touch you?” he repeats.

“No,” Andrew says, and then laughs when Nathaniel takes a step back, granting Andrew some space. “You listen rather well for a dog that bit his master’s hand.”

Nathaniel doesn’t put any stock in Andrew’s words. “I never liked to be touched afterwards, either,” he explains. He would grit his teeth through Jean helping him back to their room, and Jean would bitch about having to clean up the dried blood later, but Jean never crossed the lines Nathaniel laid out.

Andrew’s eyes jump to Nathaniel’s and lock there, recognition playing over his features as if seeing Nathaniel for the first time.

That’s what Nathaniel wants – Andrew, here, present.

Mostly hidden behind the sofa, the man finally finishes drowning and lies still.

“I told you to watch Kevin,” Andrew accuses, a deflection from the pain.

Nathaniel crouches down to put himself at Andrew’s eye level – a little below, even. His shoulders lift in a shrug. “Finding you was more important.” Andrew’s face remains overtaken with that hyena smile, but his eyes are still focused. When a beat passes and Andrew doesn’t say anything, Nathaniel shrugs out of his suit jacket and holds it out, lifting his eyebrows to establish that it’s an offering. Andrew nods, but makes no move to reach for it. Smart. No point in ripping open those lesions even more. Nathaniel tosses the jacket gently across the space separating them, and Andrew situates it on his lap.

“Who knew I was just buying you an expensive blanket,” Andrew says, voice devoid of emotion, but he laughs after the words leave his mouth. Chills ripple up Nathaniel’s spine at the juxtaposition of detachment and being unable to find any distance from emotion at all. Feeling so much and nothing at all has got to be the most horrifying sort of prison that Nathaniel can imagine.

“You went with him,” Nathaniel says, guiding the conversation away from Andrew’s detour signs.

Andrew looks up from the blood soaking into the grey jacket. “Yes.”

Nathaniel knows that he doesn’t have much time – moments, maybe – before Wymack shows up with miscellaneous other members of the cavalry. He needs to understand. “It never occurred to you to not?” That Andrew was so easily drawn away from the people he has sworn to protect… there has to be some sort of logic there. Nathaniel feels compelled to understand.

The tilt of Andrew’s head and the confused set of his eyebrows actually breaks something in Nathaniel. “Are you trying to tell me that there was anything else I could have done?”

For a moment, the whole world stops and narrows down to that sentence, the surprisingly slim thoughts of a rational man doped up on anti-psychotic pills that are doing absolutely nothing to help him. Nathaniel understand so much and yet still so surprisingly little. Andrew wouldn’t have gone if he had thought that there was any other way to handle the situation.

This, Nathaniel believes, is the greatest way the people in Andrew’s life have failed him – for making him believe that he has to do everything on his own, for making him believe that he has to suffer to protect those he cares about. For making him believe that he’s alone.

Nathaniel wants to say something to fill the silence, something profound to break through the drugs warping Andrew’s brain, but he doesn’t bother when he hears footsteps pounding on the stairs.

Aaron is the first into the room, winded but with his eyes wide and alert. Wymack is on Aaron’s heals, and he halts two steps into the room, eyes sweeping from Andrew to Nathaniel to the dead body on the floor. They move from there back to Nathaniel and the knife in his hand. “Are you fucking serious?”

Kevin shoves his way into the room and then immediately backtracks out. The sound of him retching is too loud in the silence, and Andrew covers it up with a shaky laugh. Nathaniel meets Wymack’s stare head-on. “He deserved worse. Andrew needs an ambulance.”

“Nathaniel, you can’t just murder people and not expect there to be consequences!” Wymack is scared. He’s seen bad shit happen to people, but usually things start improving for his Foxes once they become, well, Foxes. Facing the reality that bad things continue to happen to people who don’t deserve it can’t be easy on the man, but Nathaniel doesn’t have time for this.

“I don’t care about consequences. Would you rather I let him live? He doesn’t deserve to keep breathing anything other than his own blood.”

“Nathaniel,” Andrew says, tugging on Nathaniel’s attention until it’s back on him. “You’re not Riko.”

The words punch him, would have pushed him down to his knees were he not already so close to being on them. “You don’t know me,” he whispers, a stock defense, a tired argument.

Andrew doesn’t smile. “I really think I’m starting to.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey wow this is NOT proofread because #depression and also #laziness BUT I think it's decent anyway
> 
> a note: it's currently Friday, December 14th in-story

There’s no clock in the room, but Nathaniel swears he can hear one – something beating, ticking away the seconds as they sweep along, getting him further away from his most recent rash decision and the subsequent reaction that landed him here. He can’t seem to escape it, though.

 _You’re not Riko_.

Nathaniel squeezes his eyes against the pain in his gut, in his chest. This whole time, from the moment he’d woken up in Abby’s house, he’d been thinking how similar Andrew and Riko are, looking only at the gallows that draw them together and not at the gulfs that divide them. He’d thought he had to watch his back around the goalkeeper. Now here to find out that Andrew has been thinking the same fucking thing.

 _You’re not Riko_.

A revelation.

If he didn’t know better, if he wasn’t being watched, Nathaniel would put his fist through something – the table, the wall, the reflective bubble around the camera in the corner. He’s not Riko, he’s Riko’s victim. He’s not Riko, but Andrew thought he was, even if only for a short time. It hurts more than Nathaniel thought it could.

At least he can’t see Andrew now, when it would be so easy to envision himself or Jean instead. So easy to slip back into the black halls of Evermore.

Andrew had been taken from the VIP room on a stretcher, hands all over him in ways that Nathaniel knows he wasn’t comfortable with. Aaron was by his side, intent on being in the ambulance with him. Nathaniel had been cuffed still kneeling on the floor, eyes locked with Andrew’s, the burn of hazel like the glow of an oncoming vehicle. Nathaniel knows that the two of them are a car crash waiting to happen, and it terrifies him. Andrew’s a care-free driver, and Nathaniel has already been in one accident too many.

The time since the cops dragged Nathaniel from the stadium is a blur of a gun levelled at him, of Wymack putting himself between Nathaniel and the officers, of tight handcuffs and flashing lights and three mug shots. And now this – the interrogation room that’s crossed the line bordering cold and fucking freezing. They haven’t let him change, but they had to wash his face for the photos, so at least his lips don’t taste like blood when he darts his tongue out to moisten them.

He’s still in the cuffs, too, the metal a bitter bite against his bloody wrists. At least his arms are in front of him, though.

He’d kill for a sweatshirt right about now.

The door opens just as he’s starting to get antsy, and two officers walk into the room. It’s been possibly hours since Nathaniel has seen another human being, but he’s confident that these guys weren’t the arresting officers. He wonders, only briefly, why they’re here now.

“Nathaniel Wesninski.” The first officer sits across from Nathaniel, the second stays by the door. “You didn’t ask for a lawyer.”

“Don’t need one.” Nathaniel keeps glancing to the second officer. The room is so, so small – smaller now with two more people in it. They’re the right age to be his father. They look stern enough to be his father. For one of them to be blocking the door, cutting off any potential for escape, sets off all of Nathaniel’s warning bells, all of his ties to a past he doesn’t want anymore.

“You think you can lie your way out of this?”

Nathaniel’s attention moves back to the first officer, who’s playing with a red folder on the table. “No. I definitely killed that man. And I would do it again if I could. With pleasure.”

The officer hums softly and shuffles some papers out of the folder, setting them out on the table in front of Nathaniel. “The man you killed was Drake Spear, Army-enlisted, son of Cass and Richard Spear, who were, at one point, Andrew Minyard’s foster parents.”

A sick twist creeps into Nathaniel’s stomach and settles low. They had been brothers – Andrew and the man Nathaniel killed - for a time at least. And Andrew…

Nathaniel wants to tear this whole building down. “That man doesn’t deserve a name,” he spits. “He was a rapist. That’s all he will ever be, and the grave is too good for him.”

A scoff and a head shake, and then a photograph is slid across the table. “Recognize him?”

Nathaniel curls his lip in distaste of the officer before looking down. He’s expecting to see the man he killed, maybe in his Army fatigues or a graduation gown. He might, vaguely, even be expecting to see Andrew, as a teenager with the false promise of a family. But instead it’s Riko Moriyama that stares back at him, dressed up in Exy gear for a magazine shoot he did last year. Nathaniel’s sneer crumbles, and he’s left feeling shaken and stranded. Exposed. His blood is slush and his mouth is dry. Dragging his eyes away from the glossy paper, Nathaniel looks between the two officers. “What is this?” He can’t tell if he sounds dangerous or terrified. He’s not sure there’s a difference.

The first officer glances at the second, briefly. “There’s a long story, but the crimped version is that Mr. Moriyama wants to see you.”

“He’s here?” The salty flavor on Nathaniel’s tongue is rage. Riko set this all up, contacted the man Nathaniel killed, brought him here to take Andrew out, to get to Nathaniel. He’s furious at himself for not thinking about this, for not connecting more of the dots, for not seeing the bigger picture. He knew Riko was going to come after him, and he should have been open to more possibilities, to options other than death. Getting at Nathaniel through other people, exploiting a weakness, is such an obvious move. And ever since being turned down by Andrew, Riko has always hated the man. Fuck, he should have seen this coming.

“No, Nathaniel. For now, he just wants to talk to you.” A phone is pushed towards him. After a moment, it starts vibrating, the motion sliding it across the metal table.

Nathaniel picks it up and answers. “Riko.”

“Hm, you sound rather composed for someone who just got his friend… well, reunited with a brother that missed him very much.”

“What the fuck do you want?” Nathaniel isn’t on the phone to be taunted, not when he knows there’s something else.

“I want you to come home, Nathaniel, without the hassle of being dragged here in a body bag,” Riko says. Nathaniel can very clearly picture his father standing over him, blood-tipped cleaver in hand, a satisfied smile on his face. He knows Riko isn’t afraid to follow through with this threat. “After Kathy’s show, I realized my mistake in wanting you dead.”

“Say that again,” Nathaniel cuts in. “Admitting a mistake? I want to cherish it.”

Nathaniel can hear Riko’s lips pull back from his teeth. “Careful, Nathaniel, before I change my mind.”

Silence drops over the connection between phones for so long that Nathaniel wonders if the call was lost. Maybe Riko changed his mind after all. Maybe something else happened. But when he pulls the phone away from his ear to check, the connection is still strong. He puts the phone back to his ear before he can miss anything.

“Minyard is going to spend a few months in rehab,” Riko says. “You’re going to come back home for those very vital months, and, at the end, you will choose to stay here.”

“Why?” Nathaniel asks, outwardly focusing on his own predicament while, in the back of his mind, Riko’s comment about Andrew circles. “Why am I coming home now, at the end of the season?”

“Oh, Nathaniel.” The words could be tender from anyone else. “Because Jean misses you.”

The line disconnects, and Nathaniel is left hanging in its noose, chest caved in with no air left in him at all. He draws the phone from his ear and stares at the sleek, black screen for a long moment, and then he throws it at the wall with as much force as he can muster, given his handcuffed wrists. It doesn’t even shatter.

“Let me out of here,” he demands, turning very slowly to the first officer. “Right now.” Too many people are being hurt to get to Nathaniel, to get him back and tie him down with what was supposed to be a family.

The officer takes the presented evidence, including Riko’s photograph, off of the table to slide back into the folder. “If you agree to do as Mr. Moriyama says, you’ll be released. If you don’t go, you’ll be charged with the murder of Drake Spear.”

Nathaniel bares his teeth. “Yeah, I kind of put that together myself, thanks. I’m fucking going, so let me out.” He holds out his wrists, chain rattling.

Instead of a key unlocking the handcuffs, a small envelope is slipped from the folder and slapped into his palm. “Your plane ticket,” the officer says. Nathaniel rips the seal and pulls out the contents – just one ticket, departing from Upstate Regional and not coming back. Which means two things: Riko is confident that he’ll be able to break Nathaniel in two months when he couldn’t break him in eight years, and also that Riko is still afraid of Andrew. Easier to disappear Nathaniel back in South Carolina, after Andrew is already out of the equation and everyone else is heading home for Christmas.

“Is that it, then?” Nathaniel asks, folding the ticket and tucking it into his pocket. “You done being a mouthpiece for the mafia?”

The officers look at each other, the second with raised eyebrows and a tight mouth. For a moment, it looks as if the first is going to say something, but in the end he just shakes his head and gestures towards Nathaniel. The second officer approaches, leaving the door bare, and unlocks the cuffs from Nathaniel’s wrists.

As soon as he’s clear, Nathaniel’s out the door, shaking off the guiding hand that tries to rest on his shoulder. No one looks at him as he’s escorted through the station, and Nathaniel wonders if the Moriyamas are lining everyone’s pockets, or if they all just believe that he was acting in self-defense, that the man he killed was an abuser and was coming after Nathaniel. But he prefers to believe the worst of people. That way, he’s rarely surprised.

In the lobby, Abby is waiting for him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, elbows locked and lip snagged between her teeth. Over her shoulder, Wymack stands tall and utterly still. It’s the most anxious Nathaniel’s seen either of them, and he almost feels guilty for being the cause.

“No handcuffs,” Wymack notes, eyes skimming Nathaniel’s bare wrists and then moving to the officer at Nathaniel’s back. “He free to go?”

Abby opens her mouth and closes it like she can’t find the words. She approaches Nathaniel slowly, hands unclenching like it’s painful, holding them out like a question mark in the middle of a sentence.

“I’ve still got blood on me,” Nathaniel says, but he steps into Abby when she shakes her head and moves closer, and it feels good to be held so close in spite of the dried blood crinkling his shirt, in spite of the murder still fresh on his hands.

Nathaniel buries his face in Abby’s shoulder and grips the back of her shirt in his hands. He’s freezing, made more obvious against the warmth of her.

“Free from here,” the officer says in response to Wymack. “He made bail, and we’re transferring the case to South Carolina. There will be a trial, but the lawyers will deal with that.” So, Nathaniel’s going to have to get himself a lawyer, then, after all. Good to know.

He draws away from Abby very slowly – he’s not entirely sure how to keep her from being more upset, but this seems like a good start. Once he’s out of her embrace, he takes a tired step towards Wymack. “Can we get out of here, please?”

“Put this on, first.” Wymack tosses him a sweatshirt that’s at least four sizes too large for Nathaniel. “I’ve seen enough blood for one day.”

Not knowing whose sweatshirt this is and certainly not wanting to get blood on it, Nathaniel strips out of his dress shirt first. It’s easy to ignore the sharp intake of breath from the officer behind him, easy to not think about the scars his father gave him, the blood that ran down the drain that night, the sting of the shower after. Easier now, after Andrew touched the raised skin as if afraid – not of the scars themselves, but of something far less tangible that Nathaniel can’t put a name to.

He slips the hoodie over his head and uses it to cover up the memories.

There’s still a thin layer of watery blood on his skin, a seeping through from his dress shirt that pulls at his throat when he turns his head or swallows, but it’s less likely to flake off onto the sweatshirt, especially given how low the neckline sags. The hem drapes to his knees, and he rolls up the sleeves a ridiculous amount of times in order to get them at his wrists, but he’s starting to warm up now, at least. “Thank you.”

Wymack huffs. “You can thank Matt. Now, let’s go.”

At Abby’s insistence, Nathaniel tucks himself into her side, her arm looped through his, and he throws his shirt in the garbage on the way out the door.

It’s long after nightfall already, and the bus is parked under a streetlamp with the engine running and the interior lights on. All of the upperclassmen are visible through the windows. Andrew’s lot is noticeably absent.

Raphael pounds on the window and holds his thumb up, and then down a few seconds later, his face drawn like he’s waiting for an answer. Exhausted, not only from the day’s events but also from the hell he’s got waiting for him on the other side of South Carolina, Nathaniel holds out his hand and wobbles it back and forth. He pulls the hoodie tighter around his body, chilled despite the nice Florida winter. He watches Renee get up from her seat in front of Allison and open the door. Wymack’s the first one in, and then Nathaniel squeezes Abby’s hand and follows the coach aboard.

“Hey, buddy,” Matt says, and Nathaniel walks over and drops into the open seat behind him. All eyes are on him, despite the awkward distance and angle for some of them.

Nathaniel focuses only on Matt, because it’s easier to pretend he’s not the center of a crowd than it is to acknowledge everyone. “Thanks for this,” he says, plucking at the hoodie. “I’m sorry if I get blood on it.”

Matt’s face goes tight like he didn’t want to think about how Nathaniel had just killed a man, and the aftereffects of that. Too bad. “Don’t worry about it,” Matt says. Nathaniel watches him glance at the other Foxes, maybe looking for backup, for something less criminal to talk about. The silence stretches while Wymack pulls the bus into gear and leaves the police station behind.

“What the fuck happened?” Allison demands, and as grating as she’s been previously, Nathaniel is grateful for her simply cutting to the core of the discomfort between everyone.

So Nathaniel makes the unspoken spoken. He tells them, from the beginning – about Andrew taking off, about Nathaniel and Aaron chasing after. He’s vague on details about what happened in the VIP box, glossing over Andrew’s pain, not even mentioning how good it felt to feel that bastard’s blood on his face. He doesn’t give an identity to whom assaulted Andrew, because that’s Andrew’s history. It’s his story to tell, and only if he wants to. Aaron deserves to know, but Nathaniel won’t tell him, either.

“They’re putting you on trial for this?” Jacob demands, fist balling into an outward sign of anger that startles Nathaniel – until he realizes the anger is for him instead of directed at him.

“He did kill someone,” Renee reasons, though she doesn’t sound judgmental. Her holy act is lost and her eyes are burning. “There has to be a trial.”

Matt reaches out and then, maybe thinking better of it, drops his hand with a sideways smile. “My dad is friends with a lot of good lawyers, if you don’t have one yet.”

“I….” Nathaniel looks around at everyone, floored by their fierce vindication at how righteous Nathaniel was in his actions. Not even a week ago, he was ostracized for defending himself against one of their own. Now, after defending one of their own, the Foxes are fierce, even though this time it ended in murder. It’s confusing, but it’s the only real support network Nathaniel’s ever been close to. “I haven’t, yet. Thank you.”

Everyone settles down after that, turning one by one to face forward. Nathaniel looks to the window closest to him, watching the buildings and the cars wiz past.

“Where are we going?” he asks, because this isn’t the way back to the stadium or back to Palmetto.

“The hospital,” Dan says.

Right. Of course.

Time to see Andrew.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, fuck, it's been six months. I'm so sorry y'all. Thank you for sticking around if you have, and thank you for sending me nice messages about continuing <3 I definitely wouldn't have made it back here without knowing that you guys still cared about the story and were supportive of me - whether I finished it or not. 
> 
> Welcome to any new readers that happened to stumble in during my absence.
> 
> Hopefully this chapter makes up for the long wait.
> 
> I revised this like four times and didn't do a final proofread, so there's probably a buttload of mistakes.

There’s a small commotion happening in amongst the first row of cars parked outside the hospital when Wymack pulls the bus into the parking lot. Nathaniel isn’t surprised to see Andrew at the center of it, the rest of his group swirling around him like debris in a tornado. Nathaniel makes sure he’s the first one off the bus, pushing to his feet before Wymack’s even started to apply the brakes and stumbling into the wall when the bus finally comes to a jerky stop.

“Andrew,” he calls through the first crack in the bi-fold doors, shoving his way past Wymack and nearly tripping on his way down to the parking lot. He’s in motion from the moment his feet touch the ground, making his way towards Andrew and the oscillating members of his group. Andrew’s got a nurse caught in his fist, and it doesn’t look like Nicky’s managed to deescalate the situation at all, outside of trying to put himself between Andrew and the nurse. Andrew’s mouth moves, a barely-noticeable parting of lips, but Nicky flinches back like he’s just been slapped. Nathaniel skips over a curb and keeps moving forward, closing the distance between them maybe too fast.

“Andrew,” he says again, less like a crack of glass and more something familiar. “If you punch him, we’re going to have to go back to the police station, and I don’t think they’re too fond of me right now. They might change their minds. Lock us both up.”

One fist still cocked and the other still clutching the nurse by his scrubs, Andrew turns his head towards Nathaniel, just enough that Nathaniel catches a flare of gold iris in the overhanging streetlamp. “They let you go? What the fuck is wrong with them?” Nothing is his voice suggests he’s amused, but Nathaniel catches the corner of that wild manic grin that he hates so much.

Nathaniel shrugs, coming to a stop a few feet away from Andrew. “I was causing trouble. So they passed me and my problems off to South Carolina.”

“And you came running back to me? Typical.” But Andrew’s fist loosens, and Nicky visibly relaxes when the nurse manages to pull himself free and stumble back a few frightened steps, eyes wide and looking like a mouse who’s been in the cat’s claws too long. Kevin approaches the man, hands out peacefully, PR smile in place, but Nathaniel doesn’t care what happens after that. Andrew turns fully, and his eyes are all over Nathaniel – on the stains of blood still caught in his hair, the hoodie drooping to his knees, the dark bloody patches on his pants that stretch from knee to ankle – so Nathaniel thinks it’s only fair to give Andrew just as much attention.

He looks better than Nathaniel thought he would. There are no visible bruises and only one cut to his skin – a split lip with an uncomfortable-looking bandage strip over it. He’s even standing up straight. But the differences are there when Nathaniel looks closer. His shoulders are stiff and straight, wound together by a steel cable through his muscles to make him look more frightening, to make him seem bigger so that more space is granted to him. His hands are tight into fists again now that the nurse is gone, and his knees are slightly bent, legs spread just a little further than normal. There’s a firm set to his jaw and his eyes are hard as stone, a very obvious warning to anyone thinking about coming near him or asking invasive questions. Too bad Nathaniel’s never been good at heeding warnings.

“Why were you going to punch the nurse, Andrew?” Nathaniel presses, tucking his hands into his pockets just in case Andrew turns his anger on him. For once in his life, Nathaniel doesn’t want to fight back. He’d rather take a punch from Andrew than hit the man when he’s already down. Nathaniel knows what it’s like, and fuck knows he did his fair share of lashing out at Jean in similar situations.

Andrew makes a dismissive noise as he pats down his pockets with his fingers, as if he’s forgotten where he put his cigarettes. Instead of tobacco, he pulls out a folding knife and offers it between thumb and index finger to Nathaniel. “They took yours, right?”

Shocked cold that he hadn’t felt entirely naked without his knife, Nathaniel crosses the distance between them and closes his hand around the offered weapon. Andrew uses his grip and Nathaniel’s momentum to pull Nathaniel a stumbling step closer. No warning bells go off. Nathaniel looks back and forth between Andrew’s eyes and sees nothing but an empty gold darkness. And instead of panic, Nathaniel feels a sense of calm seep into him. It’s this. It’s Andrew. This is what hollows out his anger and his fear and his pain, leaving him blissfully, elegantly calm. This is why he’s going back to Evermore.

“Bee called,” Andrew says, upper lip pulling back from his teeth. Nathaniel’s hands stay where they are – one buried in his pocket and the other loose on his half of the knife. “She thinks she can get me into rehab, get me off these drugs. Says I should do it. Your idea?”

Nathaniel shakes his head, just a small tip in each direction. “No. But it’s a good idea. Get off the drugs a year early? Come on, Andrew. That’s not even a tough call.”

The man laughs, a choked sound behind a bitter baring of teeth. “I have promises to keep. I don’t have time to go to rehab. Who’s going to watch Kevin?”

“I will,” Nathaniel offers without thinking, and only realizes afterwards how much he _can’t_ and _doesn’t want_ to do that. But he’s already said it, and he’ll stick by it. Promises don’t mean as much to him as they do to Andrew, but they mean far more than nothing.

In the next moment, Andrew has a fist in Nathaniel’s hoodie, twisting the material to keep a hold of him, and Nathaniel lets him. He’s not going to fight back. He’s already decided that. “You couldn’t even watch Kevin at the banquet when I told you to.” There is anger buried at the bottom of Andrew’s voice, which means either he’s not drugged right now, or he’s too pissed off for it to matter. Nathaniel’s sort of hoping for the former.

“I’ll keep him safe, Andrew,” Nathaniel reassures, rewording his previous promise. He won’t be able to watch Kevin, and he doesn’t want to lie to Andrew, especially after the path of truths they’ve laid between them. This is going to crack that connection; he knows that even now, but he thinks it’s worth it in the long run, even if they never make their way make to a moment like this, where no one’s losing their cool and the lack of space between them means nothing. But Andrew thought that Nathaniel was like Riko, which is just as good as aligning Nathaniel with the man who just raped Andrew. The urge to prove Andrew wrong feels like drowning. The urge to give Andrew a chance to heal feels like that first painful inhale after choking too long. “Riko’s more interested in me – violently, at least. Kevin will be safe while you’re gone, so long as I’m still around to be a target.”

“And you?”

Nathaniel is fooled for a moment into thinking Andrew actually gives a shit about his wellbeing until he remembers the deal between them. In a way, he supposes, that means Andrew cares, but ultimately it was just a trade. Nathaniel shrugs. “Our deal can be on hold until you get back.”

Andrew’s face twists into a painful imitation of a smile. “That’s not how this works, Nathaniel.”

“Then drop the deal, Andrew.” The words should be exasperated, but instead they’re just slow. “I gave you my half, and you kept me safe from Riko at Kathy’s, and you took the brunt of the blow tonight, too. It’s done; I’ve got nothing else to give you. Come up with a new deal when you get back, if you’re so insistent on having something to tie me down.”

Lips pinching, Andrew’s grip tightens around both the knife and the loose fabric of Nathaniel’s hoodie. Nathaniel stays planted where he is, watching Andrew’s jaw work from less than a foot away. “Why should I trust you?”

That feels ridiculous. Their relationship is based on truths and brokering deals, not trust. “I’m not going to ask you to trust me, Andrew. That’s not how trust works. But I’ll give you something – something to come back for.”

Andrew scoffs. “You?”

“No.” Nathaniel swallows, but the words stay lodged in his throat, refusing to be reburied. “A secret. The last tie to my mother.”

“You are just brimming with secrets, aren’t you?” Andrew asks through a struggling grin.

“I’m not a liar, though,” Nathaniel points out. He’ll tell Andrew, if they both make it back, if they return to Palmetto in February stumbling and broken, but hopefully better for it.

Andrew hums almost thoughtfully. “Not yet, at least.” He scans their surroundings, taking in the dark parking lot, eyes lingering on where Aaron and Kevin are standing together. The nurse is gone. “Alright.”

“A deal?” Nathaniel prompts, wanting affirmation.

“As good as it’ll get,” Andrew agrees.

Well, that’s… something, at least. Probably more for Nathaniel than for Andrew, but Nathaniel isn’t going to argue against it.

Andrew drops both of his hands and the grips they have on Nathanial as he steps away, angling towards his twin and Kevin, leaving the knife in Nathaniel’s weak grasp. Nicky steps unwelcome into the space Andrew left behind. “How are you holding up?”

Nathaniel thinks the answer is obvious, but he humors Nicky with an, “I’m fine,” anyway. It’s a relative answer – he’s still bloody but he’s not injured, he’s tired but he can sleep on the drive home, he has to go back to Evermore but he convinced Andrew to go to rehab – but it’s as good of an answer as Nicky’s going to get. He’s saved from any more conversation with a whistle from Wymack, who’s got one foot on the steps of the bus and his hands braced on either side of the door, looking like he’d been about to run into the disaster Andrew was causing before realizing the storm had already passed. “If the drama’s all over, I don’t think I’m alone in saying that I’d like to go home now.”

With this team, and given everything Nathaniel’s seen in the month he’s been part of it, he doubts the drama will ever be over. But… Nathaniel’s come to learn that all of that drama – the laughter, the fighting, the way they won’t put up with any of their own being messed with – is growing on him. Despite everything, he’s glad that he’s here, that he signed with the Foxes. Riko may have a lot of leverage to use against him when trying to get him to sign a transfer to the Ravens, but Nathaniel won’t do it. He’s tasted freedom. He’ll die before he signs himself over to another eight years in the Nest.

Nathaniel gets on the bus behind Andrew, the last one on to twist past Wymack and head for a seat. He watches Andrew make his way to the farthest seat and collapse, lungs letting out a heap of air as he all but droops over the faux-leather bench. Behind Nathaniel, the doors close, and he takes that as his cue to either sit down or fall down. Once more, there’s distance between himself and the other members of the team, empty seats spacing them out, but this time it’s not because he feels like an outsider. This time, it’s for padding. He needs the space, needs to keep them away for a little while longer. Because there’s a good chance that Nathaniel won’t make it back from Evermore.

No one speaks as Wymack steers them out of the city, and it’s surprisingly easy for Nathaniel to settle into the corner by the window and start dozing off. He’s asleep before Jacksonville has disappeared from the rearview mirror.

Although it would have been ideal to sleep the whole drive back, especially since it’s a nighttime drive, six-plus hours, and they won’t be getting back until very early morning, Nathaniel isn’t surprised when he wakes up about halfway through the trip. They’ve stopped for gas at a truck stop, probably for the second time since they left the hospital. He stretches and yawns, bone tired and weary, and blinks around at the upperclassmen in front of him. Outside, Wymack is already off the bus, filling up the tank so they can get back on the road. Everyone else is asleep, their ability to do so apparently not affected by either the moving vehicle or the day’s events.

Not that Nathaniel is holding that over them as judgement. He’d be sleeping fine right now if not for the loom of Riko’s knives on the horizon.

He’s about to turn around and check on the men in the back – check on Andrew to see if he’s sleeping or if he’s too haunted to do so – when someone slides onto the bench next to him. For the first second or two, Nathaniel thinks it’s Andrew, but then he focuses more and realizes it’s Aaron. Even in the low light, they’re distinguishable despite being identical – identifiable by the set to their mouths and the color of their clothes, and the way Aaron refuses to meet Nathaniel’s eyes.

For a few heavy moments that drag by with the weight of being slowly buried in cement, Aaron just sits there, staring at the back of the seat in front of him. When he finally speaks, his voice is a whisper broken halfway through with anger and vindication. “I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad you killed him. If – if you hadn’t, I would have.”

Nathaniel had no expectations for this conversation, but he’s not exactly surprised that Aaron is still gutted over the evening, nightmares spilling out like steaming blood. “I don’t doubt that.” He doesn’t know Aaron’s story – barely knows Andrew’s – but he has no doubt that the twins love each other in their own codependent way, twisted by the lives they’ve led. He can see in the clench of Aaron’s fists and the tension in his arms that if the knife had been in Aaron’s hands instead of Nathaniel’s, the night would have ended much the same.

Aaron’s gaze is piercing when it hits Nathaniel, brows low and pinched like Andrew’s never are. “You knew something was wrong. How did you know?” He sounds angry about it, though whether he’s angry at Nathaniel for paying attention or angry at himself for not, Nathaniel can’t guess.

“I’d never seen him shaken before. As high as he always is…” Nathaniel trails off, lips meeting and then flattening into a crumpled line. “I figured if something could punch through the effects of the drugs, it had to be bad.” He could make a dig at Aaron, here, for not paying enough attention to his twin, to not being able to notice differences in his behavior, for not giving a fuck about supporting a man whose life has been built around supporting others. The sharp words are on the tip of his tongue, wriggling to get past his teeth. But he lets them go with a heavy breath and looks away from Aaron.

“What happened at the police station?” Aaron asks, the semi-privacy of the otherwise asleep bus apparently emboldening him. The unspoken _why are you not in jail_ rings in Nathaniel’s ears like an accusation.

For a moment, Nathaniel doesn’t answer, eyes catching on David’s outline through the window, still standing at the pump waiting for the large gas tank to fill. But Nathaniel isn’t Andrew. He can’t just avoid things he doesn’t want to talk about; he’s too confrontational. “The officers were convinced to let me go.”

He can see the confusion in Aaron’s eyes and the downcurve of his lips. Outside, the gas pump clicks, and Wymack moves to finish the process. Aaron’s mouth opens on an inhale, and he leans back like it’s going to be a question he has to brace himself for, but nothing happens. Nothing happens for so long, that Nathaniel wonders if Aaron even had anything to say in the first place. And then Aaron shakes his head and gets to his feet. “I hope it works out for you.”

Aaron’s not stupid. He’s probably got a few guesses rattling around in his head, and one of them might even be right. “Me too,” Nathaniel murmurs, facing forward as Aaron walks away.

Wymack is back on the bus moments later, and their eyes meet when Wymack does a headcount. Nathaniel shrugs and curls back up in his seat. He pushes down nightmares and memories, letting the rattling of the bus lull him back to sleep.


End file.
